


The Curse of M

by Spamberguesa



Series: The M Universe [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Human Experimentation, Magic, Precognition, Telekinesis, Telepathy, Urban Fantasy, amnesia issues, and noboby feels fine, as do her interpersonal skills, at least there's one reasonable person, aura manipulation, fun with group dynamics, geezer might be if he knew his own damn name, irish cursing is definitely creative, katje will have no moralistic judgement m'kay, lorna's driving skills leave something to be desired, poor ratiri is the only stable one, prelude to the end of the world as we know it, sociopathy and science are not a good combination, stubbornness is a survival trait dammit, that one is no fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 05:25:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 144,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2761277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spamberguesa/pseuds/Spamberguesa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day the world is ordinary; within the next week, an explosive pandemic of what could only be called magic springs up all over the globe. Otherwise ordinary people find themselves with gifts -- or curses -- they cannot control, and the persecution that ensues forces many to flee for their lives.</p><p>An institution is built in the remote Alaskan wilderness -- prison and hospital combined, to which as many of the Gifted as can be caught are sent to be studied, to discover the source of this unstable curse and stamp it out. Confused, frightened, or half-mad, the inmates all have one thing in common -- the powers foisted on them by an unknown source.</p><p>An angry ex-con-turned-musician, a grieving doctor, an unrepentant prostitute, and a man without a memory are put at the mercy of one of their own, who will stop at nothing to find out what makes them tick. Their conflict creates ripples in reality that spread far beyond what any of them might expect, and set the stage for far greater struggle that could only end in world war.</p><p>© 2014 S.G. Easterlin</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I've written five and a half novels, and never done a damn thing with them. I probably never will, either, but I'd like to put them where someone else could read them. Hopefully people will enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.

Lorna shivered, hugging her coat closer about her and glancing uneasily upward. The sky was grey, heavy with leaden clouds that hung dark and sullen over the flat expanse of the Sound. The water churned angrily, frothing into whitecaps as fitful winds gusted from the west. She’d already been kicked out of two corners at the Pike Place Market, and lost half a day’s money. If it rained it would drive away what was left of the crowd and leave her with barely enough money for dinner, let alone breakfast tomorrow.

She sat down on an unoccupied bench, unsnapping her battered guitar case and removing her guitar. She’d had both for a time out of mind, and the entire surface of the case was all but obliterated by a collection of peeling stickers. The guitar was in a much better state, and she plucked at it gently, checking to see that her recent inglorious flight from the other side of the Market hadn’t knocked it out of tune. It rang true, and with a small smile she gave it several strums and promptly launched into an old Irish lullaby. 

_“Éiníní, éiníní, codalaígí codalaígí  
Éiníní, éiníní, codalaígí codalaígí”_

As she’d expected, several of the wandering mob paused, looking at her with a startled expression that she’d grown used to over the last few months. She couldn’t decide if it was a compliment or an insult -- on the one hand, they clearly enjoyed her singing, but on the other they stared as though unable to believe the voice was coming from her. She wasn’t exactly a glamorous figure, but for God’s sake, they gawped at her like she was a singing trout. It wasn’t easy to block their thoughts, either, when they moved in herds like this; it was like being trapped in an echoing cave in which nothing was distinct enough to be understood.

_“Codalaígí, codalaígí_  
cois an chlaí amuigh, Cois an chlaí amuigh  
codalaígí, codalaígí  
Cois an chlaí amuigh, cois an chlaí amuigh”

Someone tossed a dollar into her guitar case, and she smiled and nodded--it was a teenage boy, all in black, his hair spiked and his face shot through with more piercings than she would have thought possible. He gave her an easy grin as another man stepped forward and tossed in some quarters, and an elderly woman in a rain-bonnet deposited the contents of an ancient change purse. All of them stared at her like people enthralled, their eyes slightly glazed, and she resisted an urge to laugh as she continued to strum and sing--she knew there was a reason she’d wound up in Seattle; in a place like this, anyone could find a niche. 

_“An londubh is an fiach dubh,_  
téigí a chodladh, téigí a chodladh  
an chéirseach is an préachán,  
téigí a chodladh, téigí a chodladh”

She winced slightly; her brogue had come out thicker than she liked, but nobody seemed to notice or mind. More coins pattered into her case, along with several fat raindrops, and she glanced skyward, praying it would hold off until she’d at least finished the song. At this rate she’d be set for food and gas for the next few days, and could maybe even tackle the growing pile of laundry at the back of her bus.

“Mommy, she sounds like an angel,” a little girl whispered, staring at Lorna with round blue eyes.

“Sure doesn’t look like one, though,” returned a boy, presumably her brother, and Lorna smiled crookedly, letting the last verse and last notes float off into the heavy air. Sure, she knew she looked like the bum that she was, but in a place like this you’d think nobody would mind -- for God’s sake, the guy in the corner had a dragon tattooed all over his shaved scalp; compared to half the people down here, she was positively normal.

For a few seconds there was silence, and then the woman in the rain-bonnet sniffed and wiped her eyes. “That was beautiful,” she said, blowing her nose. The rest of the little crowd still seemed too dazed to properly register that the song had ended, and Lorna used this delayed reaction to scoop the money from her case and pack up the guitar.

“Thank you,” she said, pulling up her hood. “I’d stay and sing some more, but sure, it looks ready to fair bucket on us.” At least, that’s what it sounded like to her; to everyone else it came out more like, “T’ank ye. I’d stay an’ sing s’more, but sure, ’looks ready t’fair bucketan us.”

The old woman blinked, but like all good Seattleites she merely nodded, not willing to let on that she hadn’t understood Lorna’s accent. If the throng hadn’t caught but one word in three, they at least got her point when thunder growled, and the few scattered raindrops suddenly multiplied.

“Thank you kindly, I think we’d all best be off now,” Lorna said, nodding to them all, and though she’d no idea what they’d make out of that sentence she didn’t wait around to find out, but dashed off toward cover with her loot secured safely in a Ziploc bag inside her coat.

She made it undercover before the rain started in earnest, clutching her guitar case close. On weekdays, she'd found, the Market was actually possible to navigate without having to kick people; at half an inch shy of five feet tall, Lorna would often get literally stepped on in crowds. The guitar case helped -- it was a little over half as tall as she was, and she could use it like a shield against jostling.

There was a restaurant near the main entrance, an old-fashioned place with prices reasonable enough to allow her a sandwich and a cup of tea. She'd been in the States two months now, long enough to properly get the hang of American currency -- and to discover life here was nearly as expensive as it was in Ireland. She wormed her way toward it now, shivering again as the wind picked up.

_\-- damn weather --_  
\-- weird --  
\-- windows are down --  
\-- great, the basement will flood again --  
\-- something smells good ---  
\-- oh God, what did I just step in --

Lorna winced, pressing her free hand to her temple. She knew there was nothing to be done for it -- God knew she'd tried -- and it was almost enough to drive her back to drink. If she had to become one of the Cursed, _why_ did it have to be this? Oh, it wasn't a flashy Curse, not something that would get her caught (or shot) on sight, but it was always irritating, and occasionally overwhelming to the point of debilitation. It was never anything useful, either; just snippets of thoughts, pulled at random from whoever happened to be around her. Unfortunately, she needed a crowd if she were to successfully panhandle, so she had no choice but to suck it up and deal with it.

The restaurant, she found, was busy, but not as jammed as she'd feared. It was big, with a high ceiling, worn hardwood floors, and large plate-glass windows looking out over Puget Sound. The water was even choppier now, the sky alarmingly dark. Fat raindrops, wind-borne, splatted against the glass, and she sighed. There was no way she was heading back to her bus until this cleared up.

She'd been in here often enough that the hostess knew her by sight, and directed her to the counter with a wordless wave. A number of scents drifted to her from the kitchen beyond, all delicious, and her stomach growled like the thunder outside as she clambered up onto one of the tall barstools, carefully leaning her guitar beside her.

"Haven't kicked you out yet, huh?"

Lorna glanced at the man beside her, and gave a tired grin. He was an older bloke perhaps in his sixties, with a face weather-lined and a shaggy mop of salt-and-pepper hair. She didn't know his name, and hadn't given him hers, but he'd been her semi-companion at lunch for the last week. While she didn't exactly trust him, she didn't actively _distrust_ him, either: though he seemed to know her for what she was, he wouldn't sell her out, for he, she'd gathered, was Cursed himself. She didn't know what his Curse actually was, but she didn't need to -- it was enough to know that the world was against him as much as it was her.

"Not yet," she said. "Only a matter've time before they get sick've us both, though."

The approaching waitress snorted. "Nobody'll boot you, as long as you keep buying stuff. Same as yesterday?"

Lorna nodded, and flinched when a clap of thunder broke right overhead. It was so close and so loud that it rattled the old man's mug on the counter. As if on cue, the wind picked up, misting the windows with a fine spray of salt water.

"Is this what you call normal around here?" she asked, when the waitress returned with a mug of hot water and a tea bag. (American tea; Lorna would never get used to it. Who put the bag _in_ the cup? Honestly.)

The woman frowned. "Not until recently," she said. "People keep trying to blame it on climate change, but if you ask me, it's got something to do with all the Curses floating around. Whatever they even are. Seems like every time there's a storm, more people get dragged off. It's like the storms out them as Cursed, or something."

Lorna didn't choke, but it was a near thing. She felt the old man freeze beside her, and a jolt of his dread joined hers. "You've got the Men in Grey here?" she asked.

The waitress sighed. "Is there anywhere that doesn't? Hang on, hon, I think your order's up."

Lorna glanced at the old man. She didn't need her useless telepathy to know what he was thinking. While she didn't know where he stayed, she'd been living out of an ancient VW Bus, and she'd be an absolute shit if she didn't at least give him a ride somewhere safer.

When her sandwich arrived, she ate half of it in three large bites, grabbing a takeaway box for the rest. "Come on," she said quietly. "That's got to be our cue. I've got a bus in a car park up the hill, and I'm thinking it'd be best if we weren't visible for a while."

She hopped off the stool and snatched up her guitar case, ignoring his startled look. He seemed poised to question her, but she forestalled it with a glare. They could hash out her motives later. Lorna dropped a twenty off at the hostess' station -- more than her tab, and certainly more than she could afford -- and shoved the old man out in front of her.

"You're taller," she explained, when he glanced over his shoulder at her. "People'll actually get out've your way."

They hadn't even made it back to the Market proper when somebody screamed. It was more than a mere cry of alarm; there was real fear in it, and a heavy ball of dread dropped into Lorna's stomach. Pain and shock from God knew how many people slapped her like a physical thing, momentarily stealing her breath. Something came crashing down, something far too close -- not the roof, but at least one stall.

_\-- Tricia says there's two more in here --_  
\-- got the main entrance covered --  
\-- the hell do we always have to catch them in this weather --

Lorna swore in Irish, and prodded her pseudo-friend in the back with her guitar case. "Go," she said, standing on her tiptoes to at least try to hiss into his ear. "We've got company at the entrance, so we've got to weasel our way out the back. Don't run unless somebody else does." Thank God they were both rather nondescript people. Cold though the wind was, she was sweating, her mouth dry and pulse racing. Nobody actually knew what happened to the Cursed when they got caught, but there were whispers, and none of them were good.

Her quasi-friend halted so abruptly that she slammed into his back, getting a face full of damp, slightly smelly wool. She swore again, wiping her face on her equally damp sleeve, and peered around his arm.

_Shit_.

Nobody knew just what the Men in Grey were, who they worked for or what they really did. All anybody did know was that where they went, the Cursed disappeared -- the Cursed, and anyone who tried to intervene. Not that there were many of _those_. They were, as the name suggested, men in bland grey suits, often fitted with earpieces and sunglasses, like bad impersonations of Secret Service agents. On the surface they were so cliché that it could be difficult taking them seriously at first, which was probably the point, but they'd gained one hell of a reputation.

_Now what?_ Lorna wondered, a little wildly. If she'd been alone, she would have ooched her way through the crowd and run like buggery, her height for once an advantage, but she wasn't alone. Rationally, she probably didn't have much to fear, since both she and her almost-buddy looked as normal as anyone else, but somehow, the Men in Grey always seemed to _know_ , to be able to spot the Cursed no matter how well they blended in. 

Lightning flashed, so brightly that even undercover, the strobe-glare was momentarily blinding. Lorna blinked, disoriented, and on instinct she shoved her companion to the left. Sunglasses, or no, the MiG would be as temporarily blinded as everyone else, and she meant to use that to disappear into the heavier part of the crowd.

"Pushy, aren't you?" her companion asked, just before a clap of thunder actually rattled the roof.

Lorna wasn't the only one who jumped, and she certainly wasn't the only one who swore. "Oh, you've not seen pushy yet," she said, though if his ears were ringing as badly as hers, he might not have heard her. "What in hell've we got ahead've us?" she asked, louder, once again trying to talk right into his ear.

He half-turned. "Booth blew over," he said. "Think it landed on a couple people." If he was as scared as her, he certainly wasn’t showing it; only the grim set of his mouth betrayed any worry at all. God did she envy him.

A surge of terror not her own crashed into her mind like a brick -- terror, and a pain so intense it almost made her ill. She caught a glimpse of one of the grey-suited bastards through someone else's eyes, the dull, phantom thump of what was probably a punch to the kidneys echoing through her back. 

Before she could do or say a thing, another booth went crashing down -- from the discordant jangling, she'd wager it was one of the jewelry-stalls. More screams, and far more swearing, and suddenly the tide of the crowd turned against them, a stampede headed for the relative shelter near the entrance. Even her companion, tall though he was, couldn't stand against it -- he was the one who ran into her now, forced backward by sheer press of numbers.

Lorna staggered, losing her grip on her takeaway bag and nearly dropping her guitar. Her back still ached with someone else's pain, the bright afterspots of the lightning still danced before her eyes, and she was well and truly fed up.

"Blow this," she said, the words practically a snarl. She turned, ready to kick whoever was nearest her out of her way --

\-- and found herself face-to-chest with one of the MiG.

" _Shit_ ," she breathed, heart lurching in her throat. She kicked anyway, even harder than she'd intended. Her boots, one of the few things she'd brought from Ireland, were steel-toed, and she heard the crack of his kneecap even over the panicked din.

He dropped like a lead balloon, his howl of agony completely unprofessional, she thought irrelevantly. Rather than flee, she went right over him, seizing her almost-friend's coat with her free hand.

"Well, damn," he said, half admiring. She didn't miss the rather vicious kick he delivered himself.

In spite of her fear and mounting rage, Lorna laughed. It was a slightly hysterical laugh, but it felt good nonetheless. 

"Let's blow this Popsicle stand," he said. "I need a weapon."

She blinked, stumbling when someone bumped her shoulder. "A _weapon_?"

 

He didn't respond, but he _did_ try to pat down the prone Man in Grey, who was now also sporting a bloody head wound. To her companion's obvious disappointment, the MiG didn't seem to have a gun on him.

Not that it really mattered -- they both got knocked away from him, separated by a thundering herd of schoolchildren who must have been on a class trip. Lorna lost sight of him, and to her embarrassment she accidentally whacked a kid with her guitar case. She was little enough that she could probably squeeze her way out among them, but she couldn't just leave her almost-friend, who was rapidly losing the 'almost' status.

She struggled back toward him as gingerly as she could, trying not to smack any more children. The wind had whipped the Sound into such a frenzy that she actually tasted salt on her lips, her face chilled by the frigid spray. If this kept up, the Men in Grey might be the least of their problems. Did America get hurricanes on the west coast? She didn't think so, but there was a first time for everything.

No sooner had she cleared the gaggle of kids than someone else grabbed her, a large hand clamping onto her left shoulder like a vice. It was another MiG, his suit damp and rumpled, and his expression was downright murderous.

Undignified though it was, Lorna screamed, and swung her guitar case around. It smacked him in the chest, hard enough to break his grip and send him staggering. She cringed at the thought of what it must be doing to the guitar itself, but that could be worried about later. If she _had_ a later.

The man flailed, and she hit him again, using the case as a monstrous, awkward club. She didn't even hit many other people, because the press of the crowd lessened as it lumbered onward -- much of it toward the restaurant.

"Will -- you -- leave -- _off_!" she cried, hitting him square in the jaw. Persistent bastard, she'd give him that, but the weight of the guitar and her own relentless assault drove him back.

She jumped when a salmon went sailing overhead, smacking him full in the face. For a moment she paused, blinking, but only a moment -- it was an odd sort of distraction, but she'd use it. Back she scrabbled, hunting her lost companion.

Another fish went flying over her head, this one shedding chunks of crushed ice. Somebody was raiding one of the fish stalls, hurling salmon like stinky, slimy missiles. They weren't aiming, either -- the fish hit whoever and whatever happened to be in the way, which only added to the chaos. She wished she'd thought of it first.

Her boots slipped on the wet, ice-strewn pavement, and she almost crashed into the now-lopsided display. Her new best friend, it seemed, was the salmon-bomber; he'd hurled half the fish already, and had another in his hand when she grabbed his sleeve.

"C'mon, Red Baron," she said, shouting to be heard. "I think we'd best be off."

He didn't get a chance to retort -- the entire roof groaned as it tilted sideways, water sluicing down onto everyone unfortunate enough to be in the way. Lorna instinctively ducked, though there was no real point; she wound up soaked anyway. With a growl and a curse, she took off across the treacherous pavement, dragging her companion with a strength that always surprised people. She was vaguely aware that he was still slapping people with a fish, wielding the salmon like a smell cudgel. For the first time, Lorna really wondered just who and what he'd been, before the Curses.

Another unfortunate MiG got a face full of salmon, and a pointy elbow to the ribcage immediately after. Unlike the others, he didn't go down so easily -- Lorna had to slam her forehead into his nose and knee him in the groin. Of course his nose spouted blood like a fountain, spraying over her hair and face, stinging in her eyes and temporarily washing her vision red.

Lorna swore, ignoring the screams that erupted at the sight of so much blood. Wiping her face on her sleeve did nothing but spread it around, and she gave up when they staggered out into the storm. The rain would take care of it on its own.

It was bucketing now, the wind blowing it almost horizontal: fat, heavy drops that felt hard as marbles. It slipped beneath the collar of her coat, turned the hems of her too-long jeans into wet shackles. At least her boots had a little more traction, and she used it as she bodily dragged her fish-wielding friend away from the crowd. There were so many alien thoughts in her head that she gave up trying to think herself, relying on instinct as she fled the scene of…well, it wasn't her crime, but it was a crime, all right. They just had to reach her damn bus, which was up a somewhat nasty hill. What they would do after that didn't matter.

Overhead, a streetlight shattered, the bulb going off like a small glass bomb. Christ, was someone _shooting_ at them? She didn't dare pause to check -- if there was a sniper, she could only pray the rain would bugger up his aim.

Her friend stumbled behind her, and for a horrible moment she thought he'd been shot, but no -- the gale-force wind had literally ripped his fishy weapon from his hand. He cursed, but didn't try to retrieve it -- fortunately, because Lorna would have hauled him along like a sack if he'd tried. She'd be damned if she'd drop her guitar, though: it made a more effective weapon than a salmon.

Lightning forked overhead, a brief, brilliant filigree against the blackness of the clouds, followed by a clap of thunder that rattled her jaw. A stray thought hit her: was one of the Cursed doing this? Was there another one out there -- one who could muck with the weather? There were, she knew, Cursed that could do that, though they rarely did it on purpose. Half the reason people were so afraid of the Cursed was because so many of them couldn't actually control their Curses, which occasionally had lethal consequences to anyone around them.

Her legs burned as she hauled arse up the hill, though not nearly so much as her lungs -- sheer lack of money had forced her to quit smoking when she reached America, but it had only been two months. She was panting like a dog on a hot day, now as furious with herself as she was with everything else. Not so long ago, she could have made a run like this without breaking a sweat, but she was sure as hell sweating now, and not only from adrenaline.

"I'm too old for this shite," she muttered, though she shouldn't be -- she was only thirty-three, for Christ's sake. She had no excuse for being this out-of-shape.

Her friend, it seemed, didn't share her problem: he kept up with her easily, and might have outpaced her if he'd let himself. That was even more embarrassing, since he had to be at least twice her age.

Another streetlight blew, and another -- if there was a sniper, he had piss-poor aim. If nothing else, they had that in their favor, however pants-wettingly terrifying the situation might be.

_\-- up ahead, going up the hill --  
\-- pay for that --_

Oh, no. _No_. Lorna's fists itched to hit someone, to sock at least one of the twats in the jaw, but the desire wasn't strong enough to make her want to actually have to confront any of them. She scanned the street as best she could through the deluge, but her eyes were still blurry and stinging from her unfortunate blood shower.

_\-- see them. Wish I could just shoot them both --  
\-- get a promotion for this --_

Lorna snarled, white-hot rage crowding out her fear, singing in her veins like sweet music. This she could use; anger and her were old friends, and it kept her going, tamping down the paralysis of terror. Her grip on her companion's hand tightened until she felt the bones creak, but if he made any sound of pain or protest, she didn't hear it.

She felt them before she saw them -- two Men in Grey came pelting toward them from the right. They looked like drowned rats, but one of them was armed with what looked, to Lorna's blurry eyes, like a taser.

Once again, sheer instinct took over. She released her companion's hand and swung the guitar case in a wide, clumsy arc. It was completely graceless, but it worked -- the heavy end caught the man full in the face, knocking him back into the second. 

Lorna hit him again, but this time the handle broke. The case went flying, but so did her attacker, dropping his taser. Unfortunately, it cracked into a dozen pieces when it hit the pavement. She'd get no use out of it.

The second man scrambled to his feet with a glower, but the guitar itself cracked him upside the head. Her friend must have pried the case open when she wasn't looking, and his second swing hit so hard the neck snapped in half.

In spite of everything, Lorna winced at the death of her poor instrument. _Priorities_ , she told herself, fumbling through her coat pocket. Her fingers were chilled to the point of numbness, but they found her keys nonetheless. She yanked on her companion's sleeve, and shoved them into his hand.

"Green van," she said. "Stomp the gas or it won't start."

He pushed his sodden hair out of his eyes, staring at her. "What the hell are you gonna do?"

"You're faster than me. _Go_ , will you? I'll catch up."

She struggled after him, bent nearly double against the wind. Even unencumbered by the guitar, her sodden clothes, all too big, might as well have been lead weights. Neither of the men behind her were in any condition to give chase, fortunately, and if there were others, Lorna couldn't sense them. While she was running on adrenaline, she'd crash soon enough, and she wanted to be well away before she did.

When she finally made it to the car park, she found her friend swearing at the bus. The engine coughed and shuddered as he pressed the gas, but it refused to turn over. He'd left the driver's-side door open, so of course half the interior was soaked.

"Shove over," she said, actually shoving him for emphasis. His clamber over the gearshift was far from graceful, and he swore like a sailor when his foot got stuck between the console and the dashboard.

"Welcome to the circus," Lorna muttered, wrenching the door shut. Now that she wasn't running, she was chilled through, her temper growing fouler by the second. "Come on, come _on._ "

The engine coughed again, and roared to life when she floored the accelerator. Even yet she hadn't quite got the hang of American cars -- from her perspective, everything was on the wrong side -- and she fumbled with the gearshift before she got it into reverse. The tires, nearly bald, squealed and slipped on the wet pavement, sending the entire bus lurching to the right.

"You actually _drive_ this thing?" he asked, gripping the dashboard.

"More or less. Live in it, too." She winced as the undercarriage scraped the curb. " _What_ are you doing?"

He was, in fact, rifling through the pockets of his huge overcoat. "Grabbed this off one of the goons," he replied, pulling out a handgun. "Not much, but it's loaded."

Lorna snorted in disbelief. "When did you manage that? And just what is it with you Americans and guns?"

He did something that made the gun go click. "I'll give you the lecture later. Will this thing actually make it up this hill?"

"Oi, no insulting my ride." She leaned forward to wipe the condensation off the windshield, but all she did was smear it around. The ancient windshield wipers didn't do her any favors, either.

A stray thought hit her brain -- not words, but an image. Somebody was very nearby, and they were looking right at her bus.

_\-- there you are --_

"Oh, _shite_." A fresh burst of adrenaline filled her veins as she stomped the gas again. The engine protested when she slammed it straight into fourth gear, pealing up the hill with another screech of tires. "Is that thing loaded? 'Cause I think we might need it in a minute."

"Well, fuck." The window squeaked as he rolled it down, and rain immediately blasted in. "Where?"

"Don't know. Close, somewhere ahead've us on the left." Lorna's heart was in her throat again, anger joining the adrenaline in a red-hot wave.

"Head right at the stop sign. If we can reach the freeway, we're golden."

_Yeah, if_ , she thought. The intersection was momentarily empty, and she prayed she wouldn't hit anyone who might be approaching.

The bus shuddered again when she turned hard right, and for a second she was afraid it would tip over. What was that bloody game her nephew played -- Grand Theft Auto? It was a lot less fun in reality.

There weren't any cars, but there was, at the next intersection, a police barricade. She had no space to pull a U-turn, even if she thought the bus could handle it. The thing looked unmanned, so she kept the accelerator floored.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

"Hang on."

"To _what_? My own ass?"

Lorna didn't answer, because there was no answer to be given. The wooden barrier splintered apart when she hit it -- whatever else might be said of her bus, it was sturdy as a tank -- and she gave a triumphant laugh. "Pog mo thoíne, jacknob. Shut the bloody window, will you? I think you can put the gun away."

"What does that mean?" he asked, struggling with the window. The icy blast of rain couldn't be helping his grip.

"'Kiss my ass'." It was amazing, really, what you could get away with saying in America; she'd yet to find a single person who spoke a word of Irish. More than once in her panhandling, she'd sung songs made up entirely of curses, and nobody knew the difference.

_\-- ran the damn barrier. Are they even worth it --_

"Oh, come _on_ ," she growled. "They just don't quit, do they?"

She didn't get to finish the sentence. The front tires blew with a sound like an explosion, a deep, echoing boom far louder than it ought to be. The bus pitched forward, back tires actually lifting off the pavement, and Lorna's stomach lurched with it.

The steering wheel refused to respond -- the bus careened wildly, spinning what felt like a hundred and eighty degrees. Lorna barely had time to recognize the second crash, and less time to register pain, before she flew at the windshield and everything went black.


	2. Chapter Two

Lorna's return to consciousness was a gradual, grudging thing, as though her body instinctively knew that she wouldn't like what she found when she woke up.

She felt boneless, and more than a little floaty. It took her a moment to realize she was cruising a wave of very strong painkillers, and several more to remember why she'd need them. _Damn._

At least she was warm now, and dry, lying on a somewhat uncomfortable bed. It smelled like a hospital, harsh disinfectant and floor wax, the air a little stale. How did she get here? Where _was_ here?

Gingerly she opened her eyes, blinking as her vision swam. Above her were speckled ceiling tiles and an annoyingly harsh fluorescent light. Yep, hospital. Her mouth was cottony, her throat even more so, and she could feel a large patch of gauze on her forehead. A blood-pressure cuff banded snug around her left arm, and there was something plastic attached to the index finger of her right hand.

"You're either made of iron, very lucky, or both."

She blinked, and managed to turn her head. A tall woman in pale blue medical scrubs stood in the doorway -- she was maybe Lorna's age, her fair hair pulled back in a ponytail. "What?" Lorna asked, or tried to; all her dry throat could produce was a rasp.

The nurse filled a paper cup with water, and eased the bed up so she could actually drink it. "You went right through the windshield of your car. You were unconscious a full two days before you got here."

The water hit her tongue like a blessing, cool and soothing all the way down to her stomach. Something about that statement didn't make sense, but her fuzzy brain couldn't immediately work out what. She'd been running from the Men in Grey, she'd wrecked her van--

"Shit," she whispered. "There was a man with me, in the wreck. Is he okay?"

The nurse's face went blank for a moment, and Lorna could actually see her trying to line up all those syllables into coherent speech. "He's here, too," she said, after a moment. "He was in pretty bad shape, but he'll recover."

"Where _is_ here?" The surroundings screamed 'hospital', but the nurse's mind said 'Institute'. Where had the two days between the accident and now gone? Why hadn't she been in hospital the whole time?

"You're somewhere safe."

Well, that was a non-answer if she'd ever heard one. It didn't help that the woman's thoughts didn't match her words -- her mouth said safety, but her mind didn't agree. She was deeply uneasy, and again there was that word, 'Institute'. There was nothing at all happy about it.

"Can I use the toilet?" Lorna asked, having no idea what else to say.

"Of course." The nurse sounded almost relieved. "Let me get you unhooked."

Lorna's vision wavered when she sat up, and she had to shut her eyes while she was disentangled from what seemed like far too much plastic tubing. Balance was even harder to find; for a moment she had to lean against the bed, the tile floor cold beneath her bare feet. For the first time, she registered what she was wearing - soft grey trousers like pajama pants, far too long for her, and a grey T-shirt that was equally huge. It felt unsettlingly like a prison uniform.

Her stumbling walk to the bathroom would have been embarrassing if she hadn't been too drugged to care. It was like hospital bathrooms everywhere, dull and impersonal and smelling even more harshly of disinfectant. She fetched up against the counter, leaning on it heavily while her equilibrium fought to restore itself again.

Unsurprisingly, the reflection she confronted was horrible. There was in fact a large white square of gauze stuck to her forehead, and it had a number of scrapes and bruises to keep it company. Her normally olive complexion was ashy, her upper lip split and swollen, her hair a wild tangle of black and grey. She looked…well, like she'd gone flying through a windshield. She was probably lucky she hadn't broken her neck.

Her business was more or less easily taken care of, and after she'd washed her hands, she sucked down several more cups of water. It cleared some of the glue from her mouth, if not her mind. This whole situation was a lot more fucked than it appeared on the surface, but her brain was still riding too steep on morphine for her to work out _why._

The nurse rapped on the door. "You okay in there?"

Lorna cleared her throat. "Yeah. Out in a second." A bit steadier on her feet, she actually managed to walk a straight line on her way out.

"I brought you a hairbrush," the nurse said, surprisingly kindly. "Let's get that taken care of, and then do you think you could handle eating in the cafeteria?"

Lorna didn't need to be able to read her mind to know she thought that was a terrible idea. Someone else was making her ask the question, which wasn't comforting. The thought of food was vaguely nauseating, but if she could get out of this room, she might be able to figure out just where the hell she actually was.

"Sure," she said, hauling herself back up onto the bed. "Can I see my friend, too?" She was ashamed, now, that she didn't know his name.

The nurse frowned. "Maybe later. He's asleep now, anyway."

Somehow, that did not fill Lorna with confidence. Something else she needed to investigate, if she could. Great.

Her fingers were still too stiff and clumsy to undo her long braid herself -- the nurse had to help her, as if she were a child. At least she could handle the brush on her own, and she did, using the action to mask her attempts to actively read the nurse's mind. It was, of course, worse than useless -- she'd never been able to control her telepathy at the best of times, and her drug-addled brain really wasn't in any condition to even try.

_\-- too soon, she shouldn't be up yet --_

A jumble of images were all that accompanied the thought: bland hallways, flat, featureless scrubland, and uniformed men who looked suspiciously like prison guards. Well, hell. She definitely had to get out of this room, and figure out just what in blue hell she was really dealing with. Maybe breaking her neck would have been preferable.

_Stop it,_ she scolded herself. Yes, her situation probably sucked more than she was yet aware of, but she was never going to get out of here with that attitude. First chance she got, she was escaping, no matter how banged-up she was.

The hair-tie snapped when she tried to use it, so she left the new braid to unravel on its own. Whatever. It had to be the least of her worries.

Her balance was steadier when she stood again, and she fought to clear her head. Though her stomach roiled again, she firmly tamped down her nausea -- orders or not, the nurse wasn't likely to let her out of she sicked up before she even reached the door.

Two men waited outside it: big, burly, expressionless men. Though they too wore hospital scrubs, their entire bearing shouted 'prison guard'. Well, damn. Sometimes, Lorna really hated being right.

The nurse frowned. "Is this really necessary?"

"Yes," the guard on the right said flatly. Someone must have told him the circumstances of her capture. _That_ wasn't going to make her life any easier.

"'S all right," she said, trying to enunciate, and probably failing. "Not like I could do much right now anyway." Which was very true; right now she was every bit as innocuous as she looked.

Both guards looked at her so suspiciously that she almost laughed, but they said nothing. She noted that they consciously matched her slow gait, their posture tense as they watched her like a pair of hawks, and she fought a grimace. Most definitely guards.

The hallway was as bland and nondescript as the recovery room: flat white walls, pale, speckled tile floor, and fluorescent ceiling lights that buzzed erratically. Whatever this place was, it _looked_ like a hospital, and she was obscurely worried by that.

Her head spun a little, but she refused to let it slow her down -- her own stint in prison had taught her never to show weakness to guards or fellow inmates, no matter how awful she felt. So she stayed grimly silent, letting her captors' thoughts flow through her mind in frustratingly incomplete waves.

Yet again there was that word, 'Institute'. To the nurse it had been unsettling; the man on the right was indifferent, but the one on the left attached an almost sadistic glee to it. The glee was tempered, however, by the fact that he was unable to physically harm the -- inmates? Well, that was an even worse sign. His mind made Lorna feel more ill.

When they reached a window, she paused. It was covered in metal grillwork, and it looked out on a landscape as desolate as the one she'd seen in the nurse's head: flat scrubland, tinted red by the light of a bloody sunset. There were no trees, or even other buildings -- just a fence, chain-link topped with razor wire, and woven through with heavy cables she suspected were electrified.

The guard on the right nudged her. "Move it, lady," he said, his tone obviously bored.

"Fuck off," Lorna said automatically, approaching the window. Where were they? It didn't look like any pictures of the American desert that she'd ever seen. Was she even in the States anymore? The nurse and guards all had American accents, but that didn't necessarily mean anything.

"I said _move_." He made the very grave mistake of grabbing her shoulder, trying to drag her away.

If Lorna had been sober, she might not have done it -- or at least, not done it so drastically. She drove her elbow into his ribcage as hard as she could -- hard enough to actually drive him backward, his breath exhaling in a surprised _whoosh_. She rounded on him before he could recover, socking him in the jaw with all the force she could muster. His lip split where it mashed against his teeth, turning his pained grimace bloody.

He bellowed, trying to grab her hair even as the other guard caught her arm. That one took a foot to the groin, and ouch, _that_ was a mistake -- Lorna wasn't nearly flexible enough to be trying to kick that high, and even through the painkillers she felt something strain at the back of her thigh. Oops.

Guard number two fell to his knees, but to give him credit, he didn't drop entirely. He grabbed her ankle, but she used his grip as leverage to kick his face with her other foot. Barefoot, she didn't do nearly as much damage as she could have otherwise, but it was enough to break his nose with an audible snap.

Guard number one, swearing like a sailor, managed to get her into a choke-hold -- tight, but not strangling. He wore too much smelly aftershave, and the stink of it assailed Lorna's sinuses like a solid force. It made her scowl as she gripped his arm, planted her feet on his thighs, and threw herself forward. It was sloppy, and she knew she'd hurt like a bastard later, but it worked -- he fell with her, crashing headlong into the wall and losing his grip on her in the process.

She scrabbled away on all fours, wincing when her knees hit the tile, and took off like a fleeing drunk. Her stomach roiled again, and she almost lost what was left of the lunch she'd half-eaten two days ago. She slammed into the wall herself, using it to guide her in something like a straight line.

_Now what?_ Pure adrenaline propelled her forward, but she had no idea where she was going -- she couldn't have, not knowing where she was to begin with. What little of her mind remained her own was too focused on running to bother wondering about a destination, or what she would do when she got there. It was the running, however unsteady, that mattered.

_\-- goddamn bitch --_  
\-- just embarrassing --  
\-- break her arm for that --

Well, shit. The hallway branched into a T ahead, and she staggered right, still using the wall for support. She'd rather _not_ have her arms broken, thank you very much. _I need a hostage_. What she would do with one, or how to take one in the first place, were not answers her much-abused brain was willing to provide. Lacking that, she needed a hiding place, but no convenient closets appeared.

She could feel people ahead of her -- a lot of people, a full-on crowd whose minds were a sea of nervousness. That was far from heartening, but maybe she could disappear into it. And maybe someone could tell her just what this place actually was, and where.

Her right leg almost gave out under her, but the distant, thudding gait of her pursuers spurred her on. She skidded at the next corner, stumbling so badly she actually ran into the opposite wall with a heavy _thud. That,_ she thought, _is going to hurt like hell later_.

Somebody else caught her before she could actually collapse -- two someones, a man and a woman who both wore inmate garb.

"Easy," the man said, carefully steadying her. His accent was Scottish, though he looked East Indian. He seemed to be about her age, and he was incredibly tall -- six-five at a guess. She couldn't sort his thoughts out from the maelstrom, but his expression was kind enough.

"You look like you were hit by bus," the woman said. Hers was an accent Lorna couldn't place -- Swedish? Norwegian? Something Scandinavian. She certainly looked Nordic enough: tall, blonde, and blue-eyed, with a face an angel would have envied. Her mind was distinguishable only because she wasn't thinking in English.

"Close enough," Lorna said, glancing anxiously around the corner. "Could we maybe move a bit? Only there's some right pissed off people after me."

The woman gave her the blank look she was all too familiar with, but the man, miracle of miracles, actually seemed to understand her.

"I'm not sure I want to know," he said, guiding her further into the group. It was clustered around a pair of blue metal doors, waiting…well, a little like cattle, Lorna thought uneasily. Quite a few of them looked unnaturally placid, and she wondered if they were drugged.

" _I_ want to know," the woman said, giving Lorna a frank appraisal. It was almost creepy.

Lorna grimaced, casting another nervous glance behind her. She couldn't see past the rest of the group, but it also mean her pursuers couldn't see _her_. "I might've broken a couple noses," she said. "And maybe a kneecap. I know they were after me -- dunno why they've not caught me yet."

Her companions exchanged a sober glance, which didn't help her nerves. "It's possible they were told not to," the man said. "The doctor who runs this place might want to see what you'll do next. Sometimes he likes to give us enough metaphorical rope to hang ourselves."

Before she could ask what the hell that meant, the doors opened. Watching the group move through them made the cattle metaphor seem more apt, though there were a fair number of people who didn't look doped to the eyeballs. Lorna herself was fast losing her high, and she was already regretting it -- the pain the drugs had kept at bay was creeping back, starting with her left shoulder and radiating out down her ribcage. Because apparently her day wasn't horrible enough already.

The room they entered was obviously a cafeteria. Long and wide, its walls were smooth grey concrete, unpainted and unadorned, with surprisingly large windows. The dying sunlight they let in stained everything golden-red, but it didn't make the drab surroundings any prettier. The tables were long, unpainted steel, their benches probably attached and bolted to the floor. Christ, even the cafeteria in gaol hadn't been this bland.

It was also bloody cold, and Lorna shivered as she joined the queue that seemed to form automatically. Small though she was, cold normally didn't bother her, but her clothes were thin and her feet were bare. She unbraided her hair, letting it fall heavy over her back and shoulders -- not many people seemed to realize it, but long hair could be as good as a blanket against a chill. Sure, she probably looked like Cousin It with a face, but she was marginally warmer.

Her male companion eyed her, but no sooner had he opened his mouth than she cut him off.

"If you make some crack about the Addams Family, I swear I'll kick you."

The blonde woman choked on a laugh, and he held his hands up in a placating gesture.

"Good. Now that that's out've the way, I'm Lorna. I'd say I was pleased to meet you, but in this place I'd be a bloody liar."

Again the woman gave her a blank stare, and she sighed. This was going to get old _really_ fast.

Once again, though, the man didn't miss a beat. "I'm Ratiri," he said. "And likewise. This is Katje, who doesn't always understand English."

"That was English?" Katje muttered. "You could fool me. You look cold." Without any warning, she wrapped her arm around Lorna's shoulders, plastering her at her side. "And bony."

Lorna stiffened. Even with her family, she wasn't big on physical contact, and she'd just been glomped on by a complete stranger. It took every ounce of willpower she had not to sock Katje in the face.

Ratiri groaned, and pried Katje away. "Ignore her. She has no sense of personal space. Or tact. Or modesty. It's best to just think of her as a complete savage."

Katje made a wordless protest, but Lorna laughed. It was a shaky, nervous sound, but it alleviated some of her tension. It helped that her head was weirdly quiet in here; with this number of people, her might ought to be a mess of foreign thoughts, but it just…wasn't. Was it because so many of them were drugged? She didn't know, but she wasn't going to question it. She had too many other questions to be getting on with.

Though the line moved slowly, they were close enough to the deli that she could smell food. Somehow, though she was still slightly nauseated, her stomach managed to growl, reminding her that it had been days since she'd actually eaten. Her misfiring nerves weren't helping her nausea, either; though Ratiri and Katje both seemed to think she'd be left alone, she still expected her guards/victims to burst in, looking for vengeance. What kind of person would just leave her to a crowd, after something like that? This doctor -- and she really didn't like the feeling that either of her new friends attached to that word -- had to be a right strange one.

She was quiet as they collected metal trays and plastic cutlery from one end of the buffet line, again letting the collective, alien thoughts wash through her mind. Sometimes, it was easier not to fight it, and she'd wished more than once that she knew how to meditate. Her bruised hands grabbed things automatically -- lasagna that actually smelled good, a small, remarkably fresh salad, and a cup of apple juice. _At least the food here might not be so bad_ , she thought -- not that she planned to stick around long enough to get used to it.

"Where are we?" she asked abruptly. They'd re ached the end of the line, and Ratiri beckoned her to follow him to a far table.

"I don't know," he said, "and I'm not sure anyone else does, either, except the staff. My guess is either Alaska or northern Canada."

"No one is awake when they come here," Katje added. "I think that is on purpose." She deposited her tray on the table, and sat in one enviously graceful movement. "Where you?"

Lorna shook her head, and winced. Maybe it was the cold, but the drugs were wearing off fast, and all sorts of pain was making itself insistently known. "I just woke up. Thought I was in a real hospital at first."

"Oh, it's a real hospital," Ratiri said, sitting beside her. "Of a sort. God knows they do enough _tests_."

Lorna glanced around. Though there was conversation, it was muted, uneasy, people hunched over their trays. "They're all Cursed, aren't they?" she asked, though she thought she already knew the answer. " _We're_ all Cursed."

Ratiri nodded, but neither he nor Katje said a thing.

That didn't make sense. Well, it _did_ \-- of course the Men in Grey would be stashing their captives somewhere -- but…why were they all still here?

She ate a forkful of the lasagna, wincing when the sauce hit her split lip. It really was surprisingly good, though. "I know some've them are drugged," she said slowly, "so there's not much chance they'd run, but what about everyone else? Are the staff like us? I'd think a big enough group've Cursed could break their way out, guards or no."

"There's nowhere to run to," Ratiri said quietly. "Not unless you wanted to die in the wilderness. So far as I can gather, the only way out is by air, and it would take an actual, coordinated uprising to do it. And not many here would dare try."

Personally, Lorna didn't think getting lost in the wilderness would be too bad -- but then, she didn't exactly have much experience with the great outdoors. Homelessness didn't count. She didn't buy the 'too afraid' excuse, either: there were some nasty Curses out there. In a group, just how many normal people could withstand them? Shit, fear of that idea was why they'd been hunted down in the first place. Sure, her telepathy was useless, but there were people who could walk through walls, could create fire -- hell, she'd heard of a few Cursed who had caused earthquakes. Neither Ratiri nor Katje seemed like sheep, but they also seemed to dread the very word _escape_. 

Some of her dubiousness must have shown on her face. "You have not met man who run this place yet," Katje said. "He is…some of us think he is not human."

_Isn't that melodramatic_ , Lorna thought sourly. If her two victims hadn't come for her yet, they probably weren't going to, and her fading fear was joined by irritation -- at this place, the cold, her mounting pain, and especially at herself, for getting caught in the first place. "Last I checked, aliens hadn't landed when the Curses started. Is he one've us?"

"He's a telepath," Ratiri said. "We can't plan anything without him finding out. Some of us tried."

Lorna twitched. A telepath? Another one? She hadn't met another like herself, and she didn't want to. Especially not one who could control himself. She'd read enough science fiction in prison to know that never ended well. "And what happened?"

"They disappear," Katje said grimly, and popped a whole cherry tomato in her mouth.

Lorna looked at Ratiri. "Does she always sound this dramatic?"

"She's practically turned it into an art form. She's right, though. And, while I've only met the doctor once, I never want to do it again. He's human, but he's… _wrong_." He shuddered. "He didn't ask questions. He just sifted through my mind, and I could feel him doing it. He might be Cursed, might be one of us, but to him we're test subjects. Once he's in your mind, he can control you. He just…takes you over."

Well, that was more than a little alarming. Dammit. "So he what, plays Mengele with us? Bloody brilliant." She should be scared. She _was_ scared, but she was also sore, tired, annoyed, and once again nauseated. She shoved her tray away, pressing the heels of her hands to her temples. The drone of passing thoughts might be bearable now, but it was still…wearing.

Neither responded. They didn't need to.

Ratiri raised his hand, but hesitated. "I can do something about your pain," he said, a little awkwardly. "May I?"

Lorna looked at him more than a little askance. Sure, he seemed nice enough, but she'd just met him. Still, she was feeling steadily more awful. "How?"

He seemed to read her expression with disturbing ease. "I don't need to touch you," he said. "I just need to pick at your aura."

_My aura?_ she thought. Sounded a bit New Age, but at this point, she'd take what she could get. "Go for it," she said, trying to mask her hesitancy.

Privately, she thought it looked a bit ridiculous, him picking at something she couldn't see, but she couldn't argue with the results. Both pain and nausea faded to tolerable levels, her muscles relaxing and her joints loosening. She breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"Is that your Curse?" she asked. "Because if so, it's a lot more've a gift."

For the first time, he smiled. 'I'd say so too, if it hadn't got me caught. Do you mind if I ask what yours is?"

She scowled. "Telepathy, and it's bloody useless. I can't shut it off, but I can't control it, either. I just get snips and bits've things from everyone around me. All it does is give me a headache."

It took a moment, but Katje choked on a tomato -- the first ungraceful thing Lorna had seen her do. "That," she said, red-faced and wheezing, "is bad. Very bad. He will want to be seeing you."

No need to ask who _he_ was. Katje really did seem a bit of a melodramatic sort, though; whoever ran this place probably was an arsehole and a half, but Lorna wouldn't put it past Katje to exaggerate. True, Ratiri seemed much calmer, and he was downright scared as well, but this was the twenty-first goddamn century, not bloody Auschwitz. And if this doctor truly was some kind of monster, if he was so interested in her telepathy…well, Lorna could be extremely annoying if she wanted to. If she was too aggravating to deal with, he might just give up. God knew he wouldn't be the first person she'd successfully put off.

The real thing she had to focus on was how to get out of here. It would probably take a while to work out the logistics of a viable escape plan, but she didn't buy the idea of it being impossible. She doubted the others would, either, if they weren't so damn terrified.

She jumped when a loud clatter broke the quiet. Someone a table over had flung their dinner-try, and she swung around to scan the room. Her gaze fell on a trio of young men -- very young, in their early twenties at most. They must have just arrived, because they wore street clothes, rather than the prison-uniform: baggy jeans and hooded sweatshirts, none of which looked like they'd seen the inside of a washing machine any time recently.

Something in her went cold when she saw the tattoo one sported on his neck. It was a Russian prison tattoo, a knife with an ornate handle, and it signified that he'd killed someone while in prison. One of her old cellmates had three skulls on the knuckles of her right hand -- Svetlana, her name had been, a downright crazy Russian woman who had killed her cheating husband, his mistress, and the brother that tried to intervene. She'd explained the long and detailed history of Russian prison tattooing to Lorna, and had been baffled when Lorna didn't want one herself. This was not going to end well.

"Why do you sit here?" he demanded, his English heavily accented. "I know what you are, what _we_ are. Why are you cattle?"

_Oh, for Christ's sake_ , Lorna thought despairingly, _not here. Not yet._ She wished she could actually use her Curse to communicate with him, but no, of course not. God forbid it be of any use to her.

Nobody said anything, which seemed to serve only in pissing him off. "Pathetic. We are gods. They are -- are ants. Why do you not walk out?"

He had the right attitude, at least. She could use his help, if he'd shut up and quit drawing attention to himself. " _Nyet_ ," she said, wracking her brain for what Russian Svetlana had taught her. The woman had taken Lorna on as some bastardized combination of daughter and protégé, and Lorna had let her, because she didn't want to get shanked. It had certainly been an education. " _Podozhdite. Poka ne." Wait. Not yet._ God only knew what it sounded like, with her own heavy accent, but she had to try.

He turned his head, blinking at her. " _Vy govorite po-russki_?"

Okay, at least she knew that one. " _Nemnogo." A little. A very, very little,_ " she thought. " _My dolzhny pogovorit' pozzhe_." She meant to say 'we must talk later', and she hoped she was close enough.

He rattled off something in Russian far too rapid for her to understand, and she shook her head. " _Pozzhe,_ " she reiterated. Later. " _Kogda my znayem bol'she_." When they knew more… _if_ they knew more.

He actually paused, and she hoped she was getting through to him. _Come on, kid_ , she willed. _I can use you. All of you. Just don't be a bunch of flipping eejits._

That fragile hope was not to last. One of the others grabbed the table one-handed, and actually ripped the bolts out of the floor with a tearing screech. He lifted the entire thing over his head, and hurled it at the buffet line.

Even some of the more drugged-up inmates shrieked at that, trying to duck when the table crashed into the counter, shattering the glass sneeze-guard. The sound echoed off the high walls, nearly deafening after so much quite.

Katje, wiser than she looked, dove under their table. Lorna knew that if she had any sense, she'd do the same, but she was close to despair.

"Nyet, you bloody moron!" she cried. "You'll get us all put in lockdown. You know that word, right? Where we're stuck like bugs in a goddamn bottle?"

He gave her a look of total incomprehension -- but then, so did Ratiri, so it was likely a problem of her accent rather than his English proficiency. He shouted at her in Russian, and she shouted right back, in a bastard mix of English, Russian, and Irish. Some small part of her knew she wasn't helping matters in the slightest, but she was so infuriated that logic had gone out the window. They'd obviously been in prison before -- they had to know this was doomed to end badly.

Fortunately for Ratiri, she evaded his attempts to restrain her when she hauled herself off the bench. Moe than ever did she wish there was anything at all useful about her Curse -- if she'd been able to properly use her damn telepathy, maybe she could actually convince them to just _hang on_ a while. She couldn't understand the idiot kid, and she highly doubted he understood her, but she couldn't stop. She never had been able to, once her temper got going, no matter how disastrous the outcome.

"Will you give over and sit down, before you get us all locked up? You're right, we need out, but for Christ's sake your timing's bloody awful. Just. Wait."

With what little rational mind she had left, Lorna wondered where the guards were. They should have come running the moment the table flew -- were they too stupid to head off a riot before it started, or were they waiting to see what happened? She hoped it was the former, because the latter idea was too ominous to contemplate.

He screamed something else unintelligible, and she stalked toward him, yelling right back. The man with the knife tattoo suddenly found himself being the only reasonable one when his other companion joined in.

The poor bastard grabbed both his friends, holding them back. "What even are your words?" he demanded.

She answered in broken Russian and fractured English, hoping he'd understand, and that no one else would. "You are right. We need to escape. But trying to cause a riot won't work, and now all four of us stand out. Sit down, shut up, and wait until we have an actual goddamn opportunity. Christ, I know you've been in prison before," she added in English. "You ought to know how this works."

"What are you, a _predatel'_?" the man on his right sneered.

_Predatel'_. Traitor. Snitch. "Do I look like a goddamn snitch? Fuck you in the ear!" Lorna didn't hit him, but it was a near thing. They'd blown it, and she knew it -- all of them, herself included. They were going to wind up separated, and never be let near one another again.

He ducked his comrade's arm and shoved her, and now she _did_ punch him. It hurt like a bastard -- apparently Ratiri's aura-thing had a short half-life -- but he rocked backward.

As if some unseen thread had snapped, what seemed like half the cafeteria weighed in. In reality it was only a few people, but that was more than enough.

Ratiri merely tried to restrain the man on the left, but Katje socked him right in the jaw. To Lorna's surprise, it was a decent hit. Whatever else Katje was, she knew how to throw a punch.

Ratiri winced, pulling the man backward and pushing him out of the way with unfortunate mildness. He was not, Lorna swiftly realized, a fighter by nature, which wasn't going to do him any favors now. He might be giant-sized, but anyone who had been in prison longer than a week knew how to spot the weak link, and he was it.

The man she'd first hit made a grab for her hair, and earned himself a forehead to the face. Pain exploded through her head, shockingly intense, enough to momentarily send her vision grey. She staggered, kicking him in the knee on sheer accident, and ran into a complete stranger -- a middle-aged Hispanic man. He righted her balance with surprising gentleness, right before punching her attacker so hard he fell over backward. Maybe they'd get their riot after all.

The cafeteria doors slammed shut with an almost majestic thud, and the room abruptly fell silent and still. It had to -- quite suddenly, Lorna found she couldn't move, and it didn't look like anyone else could, either. What in flying fuck? Stark terror flooded her veins, warring with her anger in such a way that she was almost sick again.

Someone was moving, though; a heavy, measured tread across the concrete floor. Lorna, who had been stuck in place facing away from the door, couldn't see who or what it belonged to, which just made it worse -- she hated having a threat at her back, and it made her shoulder blades itch.

"I am going to release you all. You will stay still, you will behave, and you will tell me exactly what is going on here." It was a male voice, deep, mostly American, but with a slight shift she couldn't identify.

In spite of everything, she almost wanted to snort. It was pretty damn obvious what was going on; either that was a rhetorical statement, or the questioner was a moron.

The strange, invisible lock that held her immobile abruptly vanished, and she wasn't the only one who sucked in a deep breath of relief. She turned, and had to peer around the third Russian to see anything.

They were faced with an extremely tall man -- Ratiri's height at least -- who regarded them like they were an exhibit at a zoo. He didn't look much older than Lorna herself: late thirties or early forties at most, though there were threads of grey through his blond hair. While his height made him imposing, there was nothing in his appearance that could explain the level of gut-wrenching fear the sight of him inspired. If he was the doctor Ratiri and Katje had mentioned, she took it all back: there was something about him straight out of the Uncanny Valley.

His eyes raked the crowd, and they were the palest, coldest eyes she'd ever seen. She half expected them to glow red, like he was a bloody Terminator. "Well?"

No one spoke. Lorna doubted anyone was able to, but the silence was excruciating. She felt like a child called before the world's worst headmaster, which probably had a lot to do with what she did next.

"He started it," she said, pointing at the bloody-faced, belligerent Russian kid. Technically his friend had, but Lorna actually halfway liked that one, so his mate could take the fall.

Those ungodly laser eyes fixated on her, and she wished she hadn't spoken. One of his pale eyebrows arched. "Did he? Young man, step forward."

The kid obviously didn't want to, but someone behind him actually shoved him. He shot Lorna an extremely dirty look, which she returned full force.

The man stepped forward, giving the boy a thorough, downright chilling, and wholly unimpressed once-over. Despite her self-imposed lifelong training against showing weakness, she couldn't help but shuffle away; she was stubborn, not suicidal.

"Strength," the man/doctor/whoever said, flatly. "Dull. Dull, and more trouble than you are worth." He reached out with a truly disturbing lack of expression, caught the boy's throat, and squeezed. Somehow, with one hand, he snapped the kid's neck like a pencil.

At this point in her life, it took a hell of a lot to genuinely horrify Lorna, but that was more than enough. Blind instinct made her rear backward, and she wasn't the only one -- as if some spell had been lifted, the crowd erupted into chaos, every damn one of them fleeing for whatever cover could be found.

Lorna herself practically dove under one of the tables, thwacking her head as she did so; if she hadn't started out with a concussion, she probably had one now. Dark stars bloomed behind her eyes, and she only staved off actual unconsciousness by sheer force of will. Ratiri had mentioned telepathy, but he'd said nothing about that sort of strength, and even through the pain, she wondered if the bastard had multiple Curses. Was that even possible? If it was, she'd never heard of it.

The boy's body hit the floor with a thud that was almost nauseating, and guilt joined the horrible cocktail of her emotions. If she hadn't said anything -- but then, that terrifying man would surely have killed _someone_. Not that that knowledge helped: she was still the one who had chosen his victim.

The bastard turned, searching. He managed no more than that, though, because a moment later, every window on the eastern side of the room shattered. No, not shattered -- they practically imploded, shards of safety glass filling the air like glittering hail. 

Frigid air blasted in, momentarily knocking all the breath out of Lorna. Some wild part of her remembered the exploding streetlights, the drunken collapse of a roof that ought to have weathered the storm, and she realized with dawning horror that _she_ was somehow the one doing this.

_Stop it_ , she thought, but her mind was so besieged by everyone else's fear that she couldn't have done it, even if she'd known how. Not all the pain in her head came from hitting it. She clapped her hands over her ears, as if that would somehow do any good, and shivered from shock and revulsion as much as from the cold. Christ, this was like one long nightmare that only got worse.

The overhead lights exploded, one by one, and the western windows cracked into a crazed mosaic. At this rate she'd bring down the roof in no time, and then what? Just how much worse could this get?

It was the wrong thing to wonder. A hand grabbed Lorna's hair, right at the crown of her head, and used it to drag her out of her hiding place. Of course she had to bash both knees on the bench as she went, adding two new sources of hurt -- as if she didn't already have enough. If she'd been in any shape, she'd have lashed out with her fists, but she was so disoriented and cold and ill that all she could do was stagger.

When she found her balance, more or less, she found herself faced with that terrifying doctor. She always felt short compared to most of the adult world, but he made her feel positively miniscule, and it didn't help that he was looking at her with a dreadful, detached curiosity. _Motherfucker._

At least he released her hair, leaving her to rub at her scalp with bruised fingers smeared with someone else's blood. He was bleeding, too, she saw: something had cut his temple, and the wound bled as only head wounds could. If it bothered him, he gave no sign at all, which somehow made it worse.

"Stop that," he ordered, almost casually, as if all the glass in the cafeteria wasn't shattering around him. 

Unfortunately, the western windows chose that moment to implode. Lorna instinctively tried to duck, but his hand shot out with unnerving speed and snatched her hair again.

"I _can't_!" she cried, two words even her accent couldn't mangle.

He tilted his head to one side, that horrible, clinical curiosity intensifying. "You really mean that, don't you?"

She didn't bother responding, because really, what could she say? Her every instinct was telling her to run, even if she had to let him tear out half her hair to do it.

He didn't give her a chance. He touched her forehead with his other hand, and darkness sucked her down like quicksand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I don't speak Russian, nor do I know anyone who does. While Lorna's Russian is supposed to be terrible, I'd still like it looked over, if anyone's willing: as it stands, it's all through Google Translate.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Lorna is not a happy bunny, and begins to realize just how deep a well of shit she's in.

The first thing Lorna became aware of was how warm she was. It was pleasant, like sun on a summer afternoon, suffusing her to her very fingertips.

It was also _wrong_. She'd done enough drugs to be sure she'd been shot full of morphine and something probably illegal, if the fuzziness in her head was any indication. Straight painkillers didn't do this to her, and hadn't for years.

The next thing she realized was that she was sitting up, more or less, in a comfortable armchair that was far too big for her. Opening her eyes wasn't an effort she was yet ready to make, but she noted the smells around her: citrus-scented furniture polish, a touch of leather from the armchair, and vague traces of an incense she couldn't identify. None of it added up to anything she remembered.

"I know you are awake, Donovan. Open your eyes."

"Sod off," she said automatically, and even those two words were almost more than she could manage.

"Open your eyes, Donovan."

This time there was a note of command even she couldn't ignore. She did it, but her vision swam so much she didn't think there had been any point. It took almost a full minute for it to even come close to focusing, and she didn't like what she saw.

"Well, _shit_ ," she muttered, mostly to herself. Just how the hell did he know her name? How long had she been unconscious this time?

The doctor arched an eyebrow. His nametag, she noted, read Von Ratched. "Profane, aren't you?" he said. There was something incredibly odd about his eyes, though it took her a moment to work out what. They were the palest grey she'd ever seen, and they refracted the low light of his desk lamp like an animal's. "You do know what they say about profanity, don't you?"

"Yeah," she muttered. "It's a crutch for the inarticulate motherfucker."

His other eyebrow went up, and she'd swear he almost smiled. Somehow, that wasn't comforting. "Close enough." He stared at her a long while in silence, appraising, and she found herself wondering if the man ever _blinked_. Even in her drugged state Lorna recognized the air of tightly-coiled energy that surrounded him like some kind of electrical current, and wondered, a little blearily, if she was going to die in here.

"I am afraid I don't know what to do with you, Donovan," he said at last. "As you are now, you're a danger to yourself and everyone around you, but I cannot drug you like this forever. Your body would not be able to handle it."

She didn't respond, and he didn't seem to expect her to. She found herself looking at the tidy white bandage at his right temple -- she'd done that, hadn't she? Even if she didn't know how? In an odd way, it was comforting to know this disturbing man could be hurt.

"My superiors would probably be happier if I killed you, but I could never do that. You are the only one like me I've ever found."

That statement didn't frighten so much as bewilder her, until her drug-addled brain kicked something relevant into her consciousness: she couldn't hear his thoughts.

The realization sent her cold. That didn't happen, ever, no matter how much she wished it might. That could only happen if he really _was_ like --

"You," he said, finishing the thought. "Yes. In all my life I've never found another telepath. It's why I must keep you alive, even if I do not yet know how to control you."

"You're absolute shite at being reassuring," Lorna mumbled. God, she was beginning to feel awful; she hadn't had a reaction to drugs this nasty since she'd been a teenager. Everything was rocking slightly, and the glow of the lamp dimmed and brightened at odd intervals. Only the hazy warmth remained constant, and even it was beginning to feel unpleasant. What in hell did he _give_ her?

"You would not know the name," he said, standing, and she scowled. Sure, she halfway read minds all the time, but she couldn't help it. Bastard had no such excuse.

He circled the desk and came to stand beside her chair, still looking at her very strangely. There was a curiosity in those pale eyes that was close to unholy. She'd never seen anything like it -- it was horrible, yet almost hypnotic. Was this what a rodent felt like when it faced a snake? It almost felt like she was drowning, like something was trying to invade her soul --

" _Stop_ it," Lorna hissed. Her legs refused to function when she tried to get up, though, and she landed shoulder-first on the carpet. A vague approximation of pain jagged through her, and she choked on her half-drawn breath. The world spun into grey, and for one terrible moment she thought she'd pass out.

Von Ratched laughed, and it was a decidedly unpleasant sound. "You felt that," he said, a weird, subtle trace of delight in his voice.

"'Course I _felt_ it," she snarled, grabbing the edge of the desk and trying valiantly to haul herself to her feet. "Stay out've my head."

The floor lurched beneath her, and he caught her arm before she could fall again. He wore gloves, she noted muzzily, heavier than surgical gloves, of some material she couldn't identify. His fingers were almost unnaturally long, and even in her current state she could feel the strength behind them.

_This day just keeps getting better and better_ , she thought wildly, and when everything stopped spinning she found herself back in the chair, Von Ratched leaning over her with a hand on either armrest. 

"No," he said flatly, all humor gone from those awful eyes. Lorna briefly debated throwing up on him, since she was sure she was going to throw up on _something_ , but her stomach lost its mutiny. "I do not let you live out of altruism, Donovan," he went on. "If I want in your mind, in I will go. Don't fight me and it will not hurt."

_Not that you'd care if it did_ , she thought, shutting her eyes in an attempt to keep the world still.

"You are right," he said. "I would not. If anything I do harms you, you have no one but yourself to blame."

She glared at him, infuriated as well as sick and horrified. If he was going to be like that, she'd think in Irish from now on, and he could go to hell. She might not be able to move without falling over, but she'd be damned if she'd let him walk all over her. He sounded American; odds were good he wouldn't know such an obscure language.

He arched an eyebrow again, and just like that, his dark amusement was back. For such a carefully-controlled man, he seemed awfully mercurial. "Stubborn," he said. "We will see what might be done about that." He raised his right hand and touched the bandage on her forehead, which felt unpleasantly damp. She couldn't say she was surprised when he frowned at it.

He rose, and this time she didn't try to get up. No point in landing in a heap again. "I will need to look at that," he said. "However, I must first do something about your hair. Hold still."

"Don't you _dare_ cut my hair!" she said, and because she'd thought it in Irish, she said it in Irish. _Dammit_ , this was too hard to maintain while she was so high. "Scissors," she tried again, in English. "No. No bloody way."

She heard him sigh as he opened a drawer. "I am not going to cut your hair off, Donovan. If you are always this adamant when you are drugged, I definitely cannot keep you in this state."

He grabbed the snarled mess of her hair and pulled it over the chair's high back, giving it a warning tug to tell her to stay put. She did, but not because of that implied threat; she just couldn't bring herself to move.

To her considerable surprise, instead of scissors she felt the gentle tug of a brush, far down at the ends of her hair. What the hell was he doing?

"I can do that, you know," she said, trying not to cringe at the fact that this cretin was touching her.

"Sit _still_ ," he said. "This will only take longer if you struggle."

Didn't _that_ sound utterly wrong. Lorna clenched her hands, fighting an inexplicable sense of utter horror. Why was she so unnerved by this? He was just brushing her hair, for God's sake. Except…she realized it was a calculated effort to unsettle her.

_An tInneal Mallachtaí_ , she thought, trying not to rise to his bait, however bizarrely sickening this was. She'd heard skin could crawl, but she'd never experienced it herself before.

"And what does that mean?" he asked.

"May the devil eat your mother," she growled. "Are you done yet?"

He laughed, and it took every ounce of effort she had not to completely cringe away. "No," he said. "Please, keep edifying me about Irish cursing while I work."

_Asshole_ , she thought.

"That's not Irish."

"Fuck you."

"No, Donovan, I've only just met you."

That did it. Lorna staggered drunkenly to her feet, pulling as far away as his grip on her hair would allow. She was furious, disgusted, more than a little sick, and completely at the end of what short tether she had. She opened her mouth to yell at him, but before she could say a thing, the desk-lamp exploded.

She let out a horribly undignified shriek and tried to duck, but once again Von Ratched's grip on her hair kept her from managing it very well. Several picture frames flew off the wall, one hitting her, smashing right across her back. Oh, hell, not _again_ \--

All awareness momentarily ceased, and when it returned she found Von Ratched had pinned her to the wall, one long, ungloved hand laid across her forehead. Lorna panicked, but she couldn't move, and no flying objects came to her aid this time.

"Interesting," he said, regarding her with that terrible detachment. "You cannot summon it of your own will, and it only summons itself in times of great distress. Don't move."

_Like I have a choice._ He was in her head again, she could feel it, yet somehow even that felt less violating than the hair-brushing. Possibly because this hurt, and she was no stranger to pain. "What're you _doing_?" she demanded, wishing she could flinch.

"Turning it off," he said, as though it should be obvious. "As best as may be, at any rate. I think perhaps you should not remain awake for this, if only for the sake of my office."

"Wait a minu--"

Darkness.

\----

Once Donovan had been packed off to her room, Von Ratched surveyed the mess that had become his office.

This place seemed full of never-ending kinks, as his superiors were so terribly fond of reminding him. Of _course_ it was, he'd retorted. What they were attempting here was something that, so far as he knew, no one in history had ever tried before, simply because the opportunity had never arisen until now. You couldn't jam this many people with magical abilities into one place and expect to find no problems. It wasn't as though he'd hit anything he couldn't deal with, and he'd make damn sure he never did.

Donovan, though…she was going to be difficult to manage, simply by the very nature of what she was. If he was going to find another such as himself, _why_ did it have to be a foul-mouthed, foul-tempered, stubborn little creature? There was next to no chance she'd cooperate.

He picked up the shattered remains of his lamp, musing. Logically it would have been safest to put her in isolation, but Von Ratched knew already that would be a bad idea. He didn't want to have to break her, but if he had no leverage over her he'd have no choice. She needed to form attachments, make friends -- give him something to threaten that wasn't her. Unless he was very much mistaken, she wasn't likely to cooperate on her own, and direct threats to her would likely get him nowhere. The fact that she could feel it when he delved into her mind was going to make his job very complicated. Complicated, but intriguing.

He shook his head, locking his office and returning to his own quarters. The inmates had been penned for the night; it was quiet in the bland hallways, the lighting muted, and the rest of the staff had gone to their apartments. The quiet was soothing.

His apartment was only one wing away from the main hospital. The others were housed as far from the inmates as they could get, but Von Ratched wanted to be near enough to deal with any emergencies. And he'd made quite sure everybody knew not to disturb him unless there was one.

It was very unlike the rest of the Institute. The walls were a soft cream instead of stark white, the floor covered in heavy pale carpet. Simple mahogany furniture, a few pictures here and there, and a wall-sized bookcase filled with journals. In some ways he was very old-fashioned; he preferred to keep his notes on his patients in hard copy rather than on a computer. There were quite a few binders, too, containing their personal records. He didn't want _those_ accessible to anyone but himself.

He took down a blank notebook, writing _Lorna Donovan_ on the square of pasteboard on the cover. Once he'd fixed himself a drink he sat at his desk, and momentarily paused.

_Subject Donovan presents the telepathy/telekinesis combination. At present she can control neither facet of her ability, and unless I find a permanent solution, she might well kill herself and everyone around her. And I must control it, not her: the last thing I need is for her to learn how to create wholesale destruction at will. She wrecked much of the cafeteria without even trying._

_I will work with her tomorrow, and see what might be done. I am unwilling to tell her that I have surprising difficulty in reading her mind, and just now I am hesitant to force the issue for fear of doing irreparable damage. She is a singularly stubborn creature; were she to find out about my difficulty, I have no doubt she would exploit it to the best of her ability. I must see what may be accomplished with the aid of drugs, though most definitely not the combination I used today._

_She is easily the most intriguing specimen I have ever found, and I wish she was likely to prove at all cooperative. Unfortunately, at present I believe I will have no choice but to break her eventually._

_I have assigned her the same room as Katje DaVries, who I hope will prove a mellowing influence. I must work with her soon as well, and continue observing Ratiri Duncan. Thus far he seems the best candidate for experiment 617, but I must make certain he is as stable as he seems. I do not want a repeat of my previous results, and I do hate having to kill an otherwise promising subject._

\----

Lorna woke every bit as disoriented as last time. She no longer felt sick, but she hardly felt human.

It took her a moment to realize she hadn't gone blind. It was just very dark in here, wherever 'here' was; she was lying on what felt like a rather uncomfortable bed, under a few thin blankets. For one terrible moment she thought she was back in prison in Dublin, but when memory caught up with her, she wished she was still there.

She blinked a few times, hard, and when her vision cleared she discovered there was a little light -- moonlight, very faint, filtering in through the room's lone, high window. It fell on a bunk opposite hers, which contained a vague lump that was probably a person. A tangle of shadow-darkened blonde curls on the pillow told her it was likely Katje.

She tried to speak, but at first her voice was nowhere to be found. Her throat was desert-dry, and she had to cough a few times before she could form anything like words. "Are you awake?" she said quietly.

"Ja. I mean, yes." Katje rolled over to face her. "You were gone a long time. What happen?"

Lorna was a while in answering. She really didn't want to relate most of what went on in that office to a total stranger. "I found out the doctor's a right twat," she said at last. "What happened in the cafeteria after I'd gone?"

"More people disappear. The send us all to our rooms early." 

There was a quiver of fear in her voice, and it took an errant thought for Lorna to realize it wasn't brought on by the cafeteria -- it was brought on by Lorna herself. Katje was bloody terrified of her.

"Hey, don't be scared've me, now. Sure God I’m shot full've so many drugs it's all I can do to blink. Besides, I don't think Von Arsehole would've put me in here if he thought I could still hurt you."

Katje relaxed, if only marginally. "How did you do that? In the cafeteria?"

"Honestly? I haven't got a bloody clue. I don't think any've us knows how these curses work."

"That? Not encouragement."

_Nothing in this place is_ , Lorna thought. Sleep was already dragging her relentlessly down again -- true sleep, not her earlier drugged stupor. If Katje said anything more, she didn't hear it.

_The nightmares found her immediately. They always did, no matter where she was, but in here they were exponentially worse. Surrounded by so many people who were already afraid turned her dreams into an absolute playground of horrors._

_She caught flashes of someone else's capture, the beatings and needles, a terrible churning mix of confusion, fear, and pain. Another young man who almost burned his girlfriend alive when he woke up with his curse, his memory of the stench of her charred flesh almost overpowering. A woman who had blown out the fuses in her entire apartment building, and who electrocuted the neighbor that ran in to see why she was screaming._

_On and on, in and out of too many people's personal hells, until her freewheeling mind latched onto the one person who wasn't drowning in their own horror._

_This was a good dream. It held a warmth and a light that was inexpressibly comforting. She was on a green field in what could easily have been Ireland, under a pale morning sky scattered with popcorn clouds. It was a little chilly, the grass beneath bare feet not her own soaked with dew. There was a heavy book in her hand -- a very brown hand, and that of a small child. Whoever was dreaming this had an amazing memory; she could feel the texture of the canvas cover under her fingers. This was a memory, a sweet childhood recollection rendered all the more beautiful by nostalgia. She had no context for it, but she didn't need one._

_Something of her own appeared on the horizon: her grandmother's cottage. Her grandmother had been an ancient woman by the time Lorna met her, and she stubbornly clung to the equally ancient cottage she'd lived in all her life. Rough stone walls, a low, sloping roof, and an herb garden that was now mostly tended by her herd of great-grandchildren. She'd had electricity put in because her eldest daughter badgered her so, but refused to heat the place with anything but her old iron woodstove. The floor was bare wood made silky-smooth by decades of hard scrubbing, the walls whitewashed rather than painted._

_Whoever's sleeping mind she shared found it curious, unaware that it was not the product of his or her own subconscious. She rode along unnoticed when they opened the door, exploring. She herself had always had very vivid dreams, and many details of the place now appeared. She'd been an adult when she first beheld the place, but she saw it now through this child's eyes._

_Other things melded in, pieces of a different home; a brick fireplace replaced the woodstove, and the walls shifted to white plaster. It was darker now, the sky outside the window heavy with clouds, but a sense of coziness suffused everything around her. A fire crackled brightly on the grate, dancing red and orange over heavy oak furniture. Somewhere a woman was singing quietly in a language she didn't know, and she let herself be buoyed by it, her own fear and anger melted away by the cadence of the alien song._

\----

Lorna woke in the morning remarkably clear-headed. It was still very early, the sky beyond the grated window just barely light, and in spite of her surroundings she felt immeasurably better than she had yesterday.

Katje was still sound asleep, and Lorna was careful not to wake her when she got up. Someone had changed her clothes before putting her in here last night -- she now wore a long, pale grey T-shirt and pants like hospital scrubs. They were too big for her, pooling around her bare feet, which were instantly chilled by the tile floor.

To her surprise, the little room had an adjacent bathroom. She would have expected this place to have communal showers like a regular prison, but she was glad to find it otherwise. While she had little use for modesty, she drew the line at showering in public.

The shower itself was little more than a cubicle, containing soap and shampoo, but no conditioner. Great. Brushing her wet hair without it was going to take eons. At least there was a brush, as well as toothpaste and two toothbrushes.

The hot water felt glorious, sluicing away the accumulated grit and sweat of the last two days. When she dried off, she actually felt human again. A pair of heavy white bathrobes hung on two hooks beside the shower, and she put one on over her scrubs before attempting to wring out her hair.

Katje was awake by the time she returned to the room, blinking and rubbing blearily at her eyes. It wasn't fair -- even first thing in the morning the woman was gorgeous. There were no bags under her eyes, and her tousled hair looked artful, unlike the rat's-nest that Lorna's inevitably was.

"Should still be some hot water," Lorna said, picking at her hair with the brush. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn't been able to eat much before the cafeteria descended into hell. "How're they going to feed us?"

"Probably bring food to the rooms. I am thinking they will not want us many in one place for a while."

Brilliant. Maybe she'd die of boredom, and be spared any more time here.

Sure enough, breakfast arrived while Katje was in the shower -- oatmeal, orange juice, and a little plastic fruit cup. Lorna had it polished off in five minutes, and wished like hell she could have some tea. She was a halfway morning person: she liked getting up early, but only if she was fortified by a lot of caffeine.

"I am going to get fat on this diet," Katje groused, when she emerged from the bathroom. "And I need conditioner."

Lorna held up the wet, still highly snarled mass of her own hair. "You and me both. I wonder who we have to choke to get some."

"Good luck," Katje snorted. "I can not even get hand lotion."

A stray thought told Lorna she wasn't griping out of vanity. Katje maintained her appearance as a matter of professional pride -- it was part of her business regimen as a prostitute. The idea of _wanting_ to be a prostitute was so alien Lorna couldn't begin to understand it, and she wondered if there was any polite way to ask.

She never got the chance. After a perfunctory knock, an orderly opened the door. "Come on, Donovan. Doctor wants to see you."

"What, _already_? It's arse o'clock in the morning," she protested. She wasn't even close to ready to face him again.

"Just be glad it's not earlier. Come on."

She scowled, but went, wondering uneasily what drug he'd try on her now. Once upon a time she'd had no objection to drugs, but she'd got clean several years ago, and she didn't want to be forced back into being a total junkie.

The sun had risen high enough to wash the sterile hallways pale gold. Katje, it seemed, was right; no other patients were about, and only a few orderlies. Now that she was fed and rested, she was better able to take in her surroundings. This place was as featureless as a real prison; most hospitals she'd seen at least attempted some kind of décor. Here there weren't even any pictures on the walls, and the lights were all harsh fluorescents. One of them buzzed erratically, and for some reason it irritated her chipped tooth.

She was led to an exam room and there abandoned, which was somehow worse than it would have been if the orderly had stayed. It looked like exam rooms everywhere, with a papered table and blank white Formica cabinets. Having nothing better to do, she rifled through them, and found nothing out of the ordinary. Boxes of rolled gauze, plastic-packaged needles, tongue depressors, and a host of implements she recognized, even if she couldn't name them. It reassured her a little; whatever tests he intended to perform would probably be fairly standard. No dissection, at least not today.

"Most people consider it rude to snoop, you know."

Lorna jumped, dropping a canister of tongue depressors with a crash. "You people left me alone in here," she said. "What the hell else was I supposed to do?"

Von Ratched crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. "Sit still," he said dryly. "Though it seems you are constitutionally incapable of doing so."

She thought a rude word, fortunately remembering to do so in Irish.

He didn't do anything as plebian as roll his eyes, though she suspected he wanted to. "Sit," he said, gesturing to the exam table. "Cooperate and you'll get out of here sooner."

Her first instinct was to argue with him, and she wondered what was wrong with her. Yes, she could be pretty belligerent by nature, but it would get her nowhere now. It was probably just because he made her so very uncomfortable.

But she went, and even managed to keep her mouth shut while he fixed a blood-pressure cuff on her left arm. It was probably going to be through the roof thanks to him, and she hated that he'd have such concrete evidence of how much he unnerved her.

Sure enough, when he noted the numbers he gave her a look of very faint amusement, and she fought the urge to kick him. It seemed he was aware of that, too.

"I'm going to draw some blood, Donovan. Please refrain from blowing out all the lighting fixtures."

Lorna almost wished she could. Apparently she wasn't upset enough, because nothing happened even when he inserted the needle. He paused to inspect her arm and she sighed, knowing what was coming next.

"Track-marks," he observed. "No wonder you reacted so oddly to the drug I gave you."

"What's your point?" she demanded, and when he looked at her he arched an eyebrow.

"Are you _always_ this combative?" His pale eyes were regarding her with an intensity she didn't like at all. His air of energy was too intense as well; it made his very presence exhausting.

"Only when I'm around someone I don't like. And will you quit bloody looking at me like that?" God, it wasn't just the energy -- he was too damn close to her, invading her space to a degree that would have got most people punched. Strangely, she suspected that wasn't calculated, and wondered why she should think so.

He straightened, taping a cotton ball over the puncture on her arm. "Like what?"

"Like I'm some kind've bug. I'm a human being, not a thing." Lorna finally gave in and scooted away from him, desperate to regain her personal space.

Von Ratched set aside his blood sample, and when he turned back to her his intensity was even worse. "Interesting," he said. "You grow more belligerent when you are nervous."

"'Course I'm nervous, you twat," she retorted, scooting even further away. "I'm in the same room as _you_. Why d'you do it? Why d'you go out've your way to be so blasted creepy? What's the _point_?"

He tilted his head, regarding her inquisitively. "And what makes you believe it is intentional?"

"What else'd it be?" she demanded. "Nobody's that creepy without years've fuckin' practice, but why?"

There was a definite edge of hysteria in her voice now, and sure enough, there went one of the light bulbs. Lorna ducked and swore, but before she could crawl under the exam table, Von Ratched grabbed her by the wrists and hauled her upright again.

"I wondered what it would take to drive you to that," he said, and once again he sounded twistedly delighted.

"Get off!" she cried, and now she did kick him, though her bare feet rendered the action useless. "I _mean_ it!"

"Of course you do," he said, entirely too calmly for the present situation. "Now unless you want to kill us both, I suggest you hold still."

And there he was, in her head again. It felt so much worse than it had the previous night, because this time she was sober, and she completely panicked. Kicking him was obviously no good, so she rose on her tiptoes, snapped her head back, and slammed her forehead into his chin. She was simply too short for it to do much good, but she thought she felt his lip split.

"The only person you're hurting is yourself, Donovan. I had hoped you would prove more cooperative."

Again his hand was on her forehead, and again unconsciousness sucked her down like quicksand. _Fuck._


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor everyone.

Thankfully, the explosions ceased once Donovan was well under. Von Ratched set her on the exam table and dabbed at his lip, unsurprised when it came away bloody. He'd thought she was bad enough drugged; sobriety, it seemed, made her downright violent. How could so much anger be contained in such a small creature? Even when he'd only touched the surface of her mind, he felt it simmering in her subconscious.

She had a spot of his blood on her forehead, and he wiped it away with the pad of his thumb. He hadn't intended to start his first experiment on her yet, but it would probably be wisest to get it out of the way now. If he was ever to properly block off her telekinesis, he had to know just what he was dealing with.

He summoned Nurse Grieggs, who gave his split lip a startled look. "Take her to F wing," he said. "And when I am through with her, allow the patients into the common room. I want to see if they've learned to behave themselves."

She nodded, and went to fetch a gurney while he attended to his lip. This was the second time Donovan had drawn blood on him in as many days, and he didn't like that at all. Bad enough the inmates had seen him wounded once -- they couldn't be allowed to see this. DaVries and Duncan would have to wait. Unfortunately for Donovan, that meant she was his pet subject for the next few days, and he had to be careful not to push her too hard at once. Damn.

He left for F wing when Grieggs returned. Very few people were allowed in here, and fewer still knew what he did with all the peculiar machinery it held. Von Ratched was a man who liked to conduct his true work in private.

The particular device he intended to use now had never been tried before. He'd built it on the off chance he should ever find another such as himself, and he was glad he had. It saved him the bother of trying to design something on the fly.

It looked deceptively simple -- a plain Formica table with a nylon head strap at one end. Two prongs holding wire-thin needles sat to either side, the steel bright in the glow of the overhead lights. No fluorescents in here; if he was going to spend an extended amount of time somewhere, he preferred the space be at least marginally appealing.

He loaded the still-unconscious Donovan onto the table, strapping her head in place and securing her arms in the table's padded restraints. Mindful of how hard she could kick, he tied her feet down, too. It was always possible she'd wake up in the middle of the procedure, and if she did she'd panic. Drugging her was out of the question just yet; he didn't want to risk tainting the results. On with the leads that would monitor her vitals, pulse and blood pressure and oxygen level: he needed to know how far this was physically pushing her as well.

Her hair was going to be a problem. He finally just let it hang off the end of the table, the ends brushing all the way to the floor. Logically he really should just cut it off, but he didn't want to imagine the kind of tantrum she'd throw if he did. Half the hospital might not survive.

The point of this exercise was to determine what, if any, defenses she had. Von Ratched could have used his telepathy, but he'd much rather observe from the outside, in his own controlled environment. Once he knew how much she could or could not do, he'd know how hard he could push her without causing actual damage. Then he could set about properly leashing her telekinesis, if not the telepathy. That would be a problem all on its own.

He took off his gloves again when he went to the instrument panel, turning the first dial. There were six of them, five controlling sensory input, the sixth essentially a telepathic hammer. They would have to see how that worked -- or didn't, as the case may be.

A faint whirring filled the air, and no sooner had the needles pierced her temples than Donovan did wake.

"Don't move," he ordered, before she could even open her mouth. "So long as you remain still this will not harm you, but if you try to get up I won't be responsible for what happens to you."

She swore, but for what had to be once in her life did as instructed. Her blood pressure was already elevated, her cardio-monitor beeping frantically, but for a former addict she was a remarkably healthy woman. She wasn't going to go and die on him for no reason. The speed of her pulse ratcheted up a notch when he added auditory input -- this was, he imagined, something like an acid-trip for her. At least it would seem marginally familiar, if in no good way.

Her hands twitched, and he glared at her. "Stop _moving,_ you foolish woman."

"Focáil leat," she ground out, and he reflected that he really was going to have to study Irish Gaelic soon, if he was to deal with her on a regular basis. She'd gone pale as her smock, sweat beading her forehead, and when he added tactile hallucinations, she screamed. Ordinarily he founds his subjects' screaming vastly irritating, but there was something almost musical about hers, even if it threatened to split his eardrums. 

He dialed that one down for now, leaving her to choke and wheeze. If he was fortunate, perhaps she'd pass out again. Already he'd decided she was much easier to deal with unconscious, if rather less entertaining.

Leaving the sensory stimuli as they were, Von Ratched turned to the sixth dial, shifting it just a fraction. As he'd suspected, she was too busy reacting to her artificial hallucinations to notice its effects, so increment by slow increment he turned it up. Now was the time to add the drugs; hopefully they would shut her up.

No sooner had he gathered his assorted chemical cocktails, though, than she screamed again -- a cry not of pain but of pure animal terror. He turned just in time for every light in the room to explode, right as Donovan ripped out all her restraints and half-fell, half-scrambled off the table.

The room plunged into darkness only for a moment before the yellow emergency lights kicked in. He raced over and grabbed her shoulders, at first thinking she might be having some kind of seizure, but no; her hands were tearing at the needles in her temples, both snapped clean from their moorings. Blood welled from the two small wounds, so dark it looked black in the dim light, and still she screamed, a note of unimaginable grief joining her fear. _What_ had happened to her?

"Donovan," he said, prying her hands away from her temples and replacing them with his own. Her blood welled hot between his fingers, and he swore inwardly. "Donovan. Lorna, look at me."

To his relief she did, insofar as she was able, but it wasn't him she saw. Her wide blank eyes looked on some terrible inner hell, and her screams gave way to a low, agonized keening. She'd go insane at this rate, if he didn't do something.

_He pressed his forehead to hers, diving into her mind with all the care he could summon. Chaotic though it was, he could at first find nothing that should draw such an extreme reaction from her --_

 _He hit it without warning, as abruptly as though he'd slammed headlong into a wall in the dark. This, this had to be it, but how? He'd run up against a mental block so deep it was likely she wasn't even aware of it, a block so impenetrable he couldn't so much as dent it. All he could do was regard it in something perilously akin to shock, almost unwilling to believe in the thing's existence. There was simply no way she'd created the thing herself; it was far too old and well-established, embedded into the very bedrock of her psyche. Something possibly stronger even than he had placed it there, and what on Earth was he to make of_ that?

As gently as he could he disengaged his mind from hers, and found her still staring at something other than reality. Her keening had stopped, but she was rocking back and forth, silent tears mingling with smears of half-dried blood. It turned her face into something like a ghoulish mask, and he stared at her, for once unsure what to do. If he simply knocked her out in this state, she might well remain in it when she woke again. He wouldn't be able to do anything with her if she stayed this close to catatonic indefinitely.

Donovan wound up breaking his indecision for him. She grabbed the lapels of his lab coat and pressed her face against the fabric, blood and tears marring the pristine white. He was a little surprised she realized she wasn’t alone, and extremely grateful she _didn't_ realize who she was with.

"Sleep, Donovan," he said, casting about for some pleasant image to force on her. He had to wipe this entire incident from her mind, though there was no knowing how much damage such a drastic excision might cause. It was surely better than the only alternative.

He skimmed a finger over her wounded temple, taking all that he dared. Whatever was left she would think of as nothing more than a nightmare. She doubtless had enough in this place as it was.

Sleep she did, all the tension draining from her in less than a minute, and now he could allow himself to be annoyed. That was an expensive machine she'd just annihilated, and who knew what she'd done to his other instruments. This damn woman might be more trouble than she was worth after all.

He lifted her and returned her to the table, ignoring the tangle of wire from her vital leads. She looked vulnerable in a way that seemed quite wrong for her; there was no fire in her now, and he wondered if this disaster had put it out permanently. Donovan might be irritating at best, but he found he didn't like the idea of diminishing her. She was aggravating, but she was a fighter, and if anything was going to break her, it should be something more noble than this. And it would preferably wait until he had performed more tests.

"I still don't know what to do with you, Donovan," he sighed. "Something has to give, and it will not be me."

\----

Ratiri was incredibly surprised at how soon they were all allowed out of their rooms. After something like the previous night, he would have expected the whole place to be on lockdown for a week.

He didn't count it as a good sign, and neither did many others. Von Ratched, they'd discovered, never did anything without a reason, and there was no way this was motivated by benevolence.

"He let us out, but he is not here. That is not comfort."

He looked at Katje, seated beside him on one of the rec room's long couches. Even she looked unsettled, and she had one of the best poker faces he'd ever seen. She was a little too pale, and though she sat still enough, her hands kept twisting the hem of her smock. "You're beginning to understand," he said, a little sadly. She'd only been here a few days, and until now, she'd outwardly adapted almost suspiciously well. She made connections left and right, was funny and flirty in equal measure, but her aura gave her away. Whatever her outward behavior, she didn't truly trust anyone, not even him. At least she'd quit hitting on him; that had been awkward for him, if not for her.

"Shouldn't have to learn. It ain't right."

Ratiri leaned around Katje to look at the couch's other occupant, an older man who had been brought in the day before Lorna. "Nothing's right, here," he sighed. "This entire place is the epitome of wrong."

He glanced around at the rest of the inmates, most also huddled on various couches. The Institute's recreation room -- this one, anyway; Ratiri was positive there had to be more -- was a large place, the only room he'd yet found that wasn't stark beyond belief. They let the inmates paint and write on the walls, and the result was a hodgepodge of graffiti that made it literally look like the proverbial room full of crazy. The windows weren't as large as those in the cafeteria, but they were much better than the tiny things in the private rooms. They looked out on flat, harsh scrubland, low-growing tundra patched here and there with frozen puddles. Wherever they were, it was very far north: he was wagering either upper Canada or Alaska.

"Katje, how did you get here?' he asked, turning back to her. "They didn't take you in Amsterdam, did they?"

She shook her head. "They catch me in airport in Montreal, almost as soon as I was off plane."

"What about you?" he asked the man. On closer inspection, the old man wasn't actually _old_ ; he was perhaps in his late fifties, but so weathered and worn he looked more like seventy. He still had plenty of hair, a shaggy thatch of salt-and-pepper in desperate need of cutting, and surprisingly piercing, faded blue eyes.

"Seattle," he said. He rubbed his jaw, and Ratiri noted with mild horror that both his hands were twisted with old burn scars. They couldn’t possibly have been properly treated when the injury happened -- it was a wonder he had any use of his fingers at all.

Ratiri looked away, not wanting to ask. So far, everyone he'd talked to had been caught in either the States or Canada -- it was probably safe to guess this place wasn't a global venture. All the staff sounded American to him, though for all he knew a few might be Canadian as well.

And most of the 'orderlies', he was sure, weren't any kind of medical personnel. They moved more like soldiers, and seemed ill at ease in their scrubs. But even they weren't as bad as some of the staff -- he was quite sure some of them were cursed themselves, and they were most definitely not on the inmates' side.

Doctor Hansen, who Ratiri had only met recently, might be promising. He looked very young for a doctor, possibly just out of medical school, and he was so new Ratiri would bet he didn't know what was really going on here just yet.

It was almost as thought Katje herself was a telepath, because no sooner had he thought of Lorna than she said, "The little explosion woman was put in my room last night, but they come and get her again this morning. She seem okay, though very…" she mimed jabbing a needle into her arm.

"Drugged?" he offered.

"Yes. I think she will not disappear forever like the others."

He wasn't surprised Von Ratched hadn't killed her -- not if her curse was as similar to his as it appeared. What _was_ unexpected was that she'd been put with another inmate at all, however briefly, and that it was an inmate she'd spoken to.

"I see circles in your head spin," Katje said. "What are you think?"

"I'm not sure how safe it is to say." He was thinking that he should be glad Lorna's unintentional outburst might provide a shade of hope -- that it had demonstrated that, terrifying or no, Von Ratched was human -- but he wasn't. In the short amount of time he'd spoken with her, he didn't think she'd be able to handle having that level of focus put on her, and he didn't want her to have to try. And God only knew what Von Ratched was doing to her; she was too valuable to be physically harmed, but the doctor had made it abundantly clear he didn't need to touch someone to hurt them. If his curse was truly like hers -- if he was a telepath as well as a telekinetic -- it would explain a lot, and not in a good way.

The not-really-old man snorted. "Probably not safe to even think in here."

Ratiri leaned around Katje again. "Why would you say that?" This bloke hadn't been anywhere near Lorna -- surely he hadn't heard her mention her telepathy.

"I see things. I think the word's precognition or something. Done it for years, but it's damn near useless 'cause I can't control it. Makes me forget shit, too; hell, I don't even know my own name. Gone by Geezer as far back as I can remember."

Suddenly, Ratiri's own curse didn't seem so bad at all. "Nice to meet you, Geezer," he said. "I'm Ratiri, and this is Katje. Does anyone else know what it is you do?" Heaven help him whenever he came to Von Ratched's attention.

Geezer snorted again. "Somebody does, or I wouldn't be here. They've gotta have some of us working for 'em."

"Kapo," Katje said.

"Huh?" Geezer asked.

"Kapo," she repeated, and paused, apparently searching for the English to explain. "In second World War, the camps would sometimes let prisoners work with guards. They call them Kapo, and my grandmother say they could be worse than SS."

Katje looked awfully young to have had a grandparent who'd survived a concentration camp, Ratiri thought. "She told you that?"

"She did. And I think maybe we go that way again. You think it is bad in America -- in Holland, they shoot us if they catch us. Is why I ran away."

"Jesus," Geezer muttered. "Dunno, though, getting shot might be better'n being in here."

"Lullepraat," she retorted. "I think it translate as 'bullshit'. There are always ways to -- I think you say work the system. You just must know how."

She seemed to be doing that already, Ratiri mused. There didn't seem to be anything calculated in the way she made friends here, but it definitely wasn't hurting her any. She was flirty by nature, and even without make-up she was gorgeous, but it was more than that. There was just something eminently likeable about Katje, even if he was convinced a lot more went on in that blonde head than she ever let on. He wasn't about to give her away; if she preferred to let most people think she was shallow, that was her business. Being underestimated probably had its advantages.

It wasn't something he'd ever get away with. His very height made him noticeable, and growing up in rural Scotland, his race had, too. His father had worked in India as a young doctor, and brought an Indian wife home with him. Ratiri was their only child, born in Scotland a few years into their marriage, and though he'd never been teased he'd often been whispered about. Blending in had never been an option, and it still wasn't. And this was not a place where you wanted to stand out.

So far, he'd been lucky enough to escape all but perfunctory notice, but that wouldn't last forever. His curse was neither drastic nor flashy; he saw auras, and to an extent he could manipulate them, but it wasn't like Katje's or Geezer's or Lorna's. It was a quiet curse, and it might not have got him caught if he hadn't been desperate enough to use it. When he ran out of money in Canada, he'd started tweaking the auras of cashiers, willing them to believe random scraps of paper were actual bills. Though he never did it at the same store twice, somebody noticed.

In theory he could use it to trick his way out of here, but where would he go? He hadn't been kidding when he told Lorna they were in the middle of nowhere. From everything he'd gathered, the Institute wasn't even accessible by road; everything was brought in by air. Getting out could probably be done, if he felt like freezing or starving in the wilderness. Whoever had built this place had probably been advised by Von Ratched, who knew what he was doing, even if no one else did.

His ruminations were interrupted by a sudden jag of pain, white-hot agony that stabbed through his brain lightning-fast. It was gone within moments, but the inexplicable horror that accompanied it lingered. It was so sharp and so terrible that for a moment he stopped breathing, and came dangerously close to passing out entirely.

Katje cast him a worried look. "What?" she asked, but he couldn't answer. The pain came again, worse this time, searing through his nerves like brushfire. It was so intense it sent his vision grey, and before he knew what had happened he'd collapsed off the couch, landing hard on the unforgiving tile. Its chill made such a horrible counterpoint to the heat of his anguish that consciousness all but gave up again, leaving him almost unaware of his surroundings.

He had no idea how long it lasted, but it seemed an eternity before a merciful, dizzying dose of dilauded coursed through his system. The drug rendered him pleasantly numb within minutes, though it made his head spin so badly he shut his eyes. Someone had put him on a gurney, and he vaguely heard Hansen's voice.

"--no idea," he was saying. "I want to run some bloodwork. You're _sure_ nobody gave him a sedative this morning?"

" _Yes_ , Doctor." Nurse Grieggs, sounding highly exasperated. "And he ate the same food as everyone else. I'd better tell Doctor von Ratched."

Panic seized Ratiri, but Hansen said, "Let's not bother him until the bloodwork's done. Might be best to rule some things out first."

_Thank you, Hansen_ , Ratiri thought, and he was even more relieved when he opened his eyes a fraction and saw Grieggs stomp out. Her aura might not be as bad as Von Ratched's, but it was bad enough.

"Hang in there, Ratiri," Hansen said. "We'll figure this out."

_I was afraid of that_ , Ratiri thought, and once again lost awareness of everything around him.

_He was hovering in a nebulous dream-state when he realized he wasn't alone. Some completely alien presence was lurking in his mind, but it wasn't nearly malevolent enough to be Von Ratched. Angry, yes, but also confused and hurt._

Who's there? _he asked._

Me. Where's here?

_The thought sounded like a voice he recognized, one he'd thought he'd never hear again._ My head, I think. Lorna?

Unfortunately -- kind've wish I wasn't me right now. This Ratiri I’m talking to?  
It is. Where are you?

Aside from your head? I haven't got a bloody clue, and I don't want one. I don't even know how I got here. Or how to get out. Sorry.

Don't worry about it. _If this was a dream, he could do much worse. And he wasn't quite prepared to admit to himself that it could be anything else. Lorna seemed like a decent woman, but the thought of her being actively within his mind was something he just wasn't ready to confront._

I can pretend I’m not here, if you'd like, _she said, and there was an unnerving sorrow in her mental voice, that all but dashed his dream theory. His own mind would never assign her something so melancholy._

No, it's all right. This is just…

Bloody odd? _she finished._ Tell me about it. All things considered, I'd rather be in your head than mine right now. I don't know what Von Arsehole did to me, but…

_She trailed off, and he didn't ask her to finish the thought. It was probably better she not remember._

Stay, _he said._ It's better to not be alone here. _He meant more than just his mind. Isolation in this hellhole could drive a person truly mad. Bizarre as this was, it felt much better than being on his own._

\----

Seated at Donovan's bedside, Von Ratched arched an eyebrow. Wasn't _this_ interesting. He'd suspected her uncontrolled telepathy would try to find an anchor, but he hadn't expected her to succeed. Duncan must be even more stable than he'd thought, if he could handle that. It made him all the more promising. It was somewhat unfortunate he was the one Donovan had latched onto, considering Von Ratched's plans for the man, but that could be worked with. It wasn't as though they didn't have plenty of time.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which things get steadily worse.

Ratiri didn't know when he'd properly fallen asleep, but he woke feeling much less horrible than he might have expected. 

He was alone in his room, and the height of the sun on the wall opposite his window told him it was probably mid-afternoon. Had he really lost the better part of a whole day?

After a few blinks and a groan, he managed to sit up. He was as alone in his head as he was in the room; Lorna, if she had ever really been there, was gone now.

He rose to use the bathroom, and managed a shower in spite of his fuzzy head. Dilauded was a great fast-acting painkiller, but the few times he'd had it he'd always been left with a bit of a hangover. It took three brushes of his teeth to get what felt like glue out of his mouth, and he gulped water until he could hold no more.

To his surprise, the door to the hallway was unlocked. Unfortunately, just outside it stood an orderly, in a stance that even he recognized as military parade rest. "Doctor wants to see you," she said, by way of greeting. "Follow me."

He sighed, but did, rubbing a hand over his face. Not even remotely prepared to face Von Ratched so soon, he dreaded what the man might want with him. It was almost certainly going to involve a lot of needles.

Or so he thought, until he was led not to an exam room, but to the doctor's personal office. He'd only been in here once before, but it was worse this time around. This time, he knew he was walking into a trap.

The light was dim in here, the shades half-drawn against the glare of the afternoon sun. The man himself sat at his desk, and there was an entirely new air of curiosity about him. "Sit," he said, gesturing to the chair opposite him, and Ratiri did so with incredible wariness.

"Nurse Grieggs told me you had something of an incident yesterday. I believe I know the cause, though not why it should have happened to you precisely. For that, I will need a look in your mind."

Oh, _hell_. This was worse than any amount of needles. "Why?" he asked, wondering how far he would make it if he tried to run.

"Donovan," Von Ratched said, blunt. "Lorna. She found your mind yesterday, and I want to know why it was you."

Wonderful. That actually _had_ been real. "And reading me will tell you that?"

"And possibly more. Be still, Duncan, and this will not hurt."

Amazingly, at first it seemed he was true to his word. Unlike with Lorna, Ratiri felt no intrusive presence at all in his mind -- though that was also rather chilling. If he couldn't sense it, he'd never know when it was happening.

_No, Duncan, you will not. However, I do not make a habit of harming my patients without reason._

Strangely, Ratiri halfway believed him, which made the pain that lanced a moment later all the more jarring. It wasn't a patch on what he'd felt yesterday, but it still hurt like hell, as though the Migraine Fairy had just passed by and stabbed him in the brain. Black sparkles swam behind his eyes, and Von Ratched actually _blinked._

"Fascinating," he said, eying Ratiri like an especially interesting bacterium in a petri dish. "She's tried to put a block on you. And she couldn't possibly have known what she was doing."

The pain vanished as rapidly as it had come, leaving him vaguely nauseated. "What?"

"Donovan tried to build a shield around your mind. She has no idea how to do so, or even that she can. It must have been pure instinct. This bears…testing." He stood, and on instinct Ratiri did, too. He might be every bit as tall as Von Ratched, but something about the man daunted him into feeling very small. "Come with me, Duncan. I will have Nurse Grieggs take your vitals, and then we will begin."

Every instinct told Ratiri to bolt, but where would he go? What would he do? He still felt too weak to put up anything like a real fight. In the end he had little choice, so go he did, wondering if he was shortly going to wish he was dead.

\----

This was beyond intriguing. This was something Von Ratched had never seen before, and for now it would take precedence over most of his other work. He'd never bothered abiding by schedules if something in particular struck his fancy, and these two had most definitely caught his attention.

He led Duncan to an exam room and there abandoned him to Grieggs, plotting all the way to F wing. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, but subduing Donovan was going to take some thought. She had to be awake and at least semi coherent, but she couldn't be allowed to destroy everything around her. And he couldn't be as thorough in this test as he would like, not so soon after the previous day's disaster. This would have to be extremely basic and minimally invasive, but it had to be done. If his suspicions were correct, these two could prove to be one of the most amazing things he'd ever found.

Donovan was awake in her holding cell, though hardly what one might call lucid. Her eyes were definitely glazed, but she was not nearly so pale. A white square of gauze was neatly taped over each of her temples, but her wild hair made her look more like a cavewoman than a patient. That would have to be dealt with later.

She tensed when he entered the room, but she was still too drugged to offer much fight. Drugged, but as sane as she'd ever been -- a cursory telepathic assessment told him she was understandably traumatized, but hardly a vegetable. Had she been, there was no way she could have put a block on Duncan, however primitive it might be.

"Good afternoon, Donovan," he said. "I need to move you now. Fight me on this and I will make you wish you'd never been born." He had no patience for her recalcitrance just now, and fortunately for her she seemed too groggy to offer much. She staggered so much when he tried to drag her by the arm that eventually he just picked her up and carried her. 

Room four would work for her. He could break the two-way mirror that separated it from room three, and save her the bother; aside from that, there was nothing important she could wreck. In her current state tying her down might even work, at least for a little while.

Unfortunately, the damn woman was thinking in Irish again as he strapped her to the table. He really did need to break her of that, but there was time enough to work on that problem later. He unscrewed the bulb from the overhead lamp, and broke the mirror apart in a much tidier fashion that she ever would have managed. She watched him, wary and unnerved, and he checked her temples before he went to fetch Duncan. They would both heal cleanly enough.

"…the fuck'd you do to me?" she slurred.

"Nothing you would want to remember," he said, quite truthfully. "Try not to destroy anything in my absence."

Her responding curse was so unintelligible he couldn't tell what language she used. Satisfied she wasn't going anywhere any time soon, he went for Duncan.

"Vitals look good, Doctor," Grieggs said. She was obviously curious, but she'd never dream of asking -- it was one of the things he liked about her. Unlike some of the staff, she knew better than to be nosy.

"I am going to warn you, Duncan, that it will be in your own best interest to cooperate," he said, as he led Duncan to F wing. "This will not be pleasant, but it will be much worse if you fight me."

To his credit, Duncan said nothing. He was on the verge of fleeing with every step he took, but he never quite dared -- not until they reached room three, and he spotted Donovan.

"What did you _do_ \--" he started, but Von Ratched slammed him down onto the table, knocking the wind from him before he could finish the sentence.

"Nothing you need to worry about," he said, securing the nylon straps across Duncan's torso. The man tried to fight him, but battling a telekinetic hold was quite pointless. At least he didn't start cursing like Donovan.

Von Ratched stepped back to the foot of the table, surveying them both. The dividing wall was high enough that they couldn't see one another while lying prone: the small amount of isolation this gave them would work to his advantage. He wanted them to be able to hear each other, though. If Donovan really had wound up as bizarrely, unconsciously protective as he suspected, hearing Duncan would likely intensify her own response.

"The two of you have given me a great deal of food for thought," he said. "Donovan, I would not have thought you capable of just what you've done, and I suspect you are entirely unaware of it. This will harm neither of you, although I am quite sure it will hurt."

He turned back to Duncan, delving into the man's thoughts until he reached the edge of Donovan's would-be barrier. Fortunately Duncan's mind was tidy by nature, since the same could not be said of Donovan. Now that he was looking for it, he could feel traces of her thoughts along the edge of the thing, a mental tang quite alien to Duncan. Every mind Von Ratched had ever read had its own unique feel, and he wondered now how Duncan couldn't be aware of it himself. It stood out like a web of light, green as Donovan's eyes, and when he pushed against that web it was surprisingly strong.

Of course Duncan screamed, but what was surprising was that Donovan did, too. Had her telepathy really anchored itself to him so firmly? She must be stronger than Von Ratched had thought, to have done so much unconsciously. Strange, that she could keep him out of Duncan's mind more effectively than her own.

He pushed harder, ignoring both their cries and wishing idly that he could use earplugs for this sort of test. The block was stretching like a spider web, but still it didn't snap -- just what _had_ she done here? He'd never seen anything like it.

Finally the thing broke, and when it did, so did Donovan's restraints. _That_ was already irritating him -- was she going to do that every time he left her conscious?

She staggered drunkenly to her feet, and he decided he hadn't needed to worry about dousing her inner fire: her eyes burned with a rage that seemed downright unstable. He watched dispassionately as she tried to cross the barrier between the two rooms -- she was so small it was chest-high on her, and there was something vaguely adorable in her vehemence.

At least, he thought it was adorable until her mind clawed at his -- it was wild, untrained, instinctive, and to his very great surprise, it actually hurt a little. Oh, she had _potential_ , all right; it was a pity such potential came wrapped up in a creature like Lorna Donovan. She would never, he thought, use it properly.

"And just what do you think you are going to do, should you make it across that wall?" he asked, mildly fascinated that she was still struggling. She was a stubborn one, he'd give her that. "Do you honestly think you can hurt me?"

"Did it once," she snarled, and she even sounded a little like an animal.

"That you did." He utterly ignored Duncan, who was struggling hard himself, and went to face Donovan, picking her up by her armpits as though she were a child. "So angry, yet so protective. I think I was right about you." She would attack him to protect a near-total stranger, far more fiercely than she defended herself. And it wasn't truly altruism, either; she did it because she didn't believe Duncan capable of taking care of himself. There was a touch of arrogance in her, a twisted pride, and he wanted to know where it came from. Once he was finished here, he would have to do some more digging in her mind.

"Fuck you," she managed.

"Ah," he said. "English, this time. I see we are making progress. A pity you insist on making everything else so difficult." He put her down before she could kick him, pinning both her arms with one of his and dragging her back to the still-thrashing Duncan. "Since I cannot trust you to hold still without impetus, if you do not stop fighting me, I will pull his eyes out."

He had no intention of actually doing so, but it seemed Donovan believed him, for she froze -- for the moment, anyway. She would certainly start fighting again, after what he meant to do next. 

With his free hand he grabbed Duncan's index finger and snapped it back, hard, the fragile bone breaking with a sound like a snapped pencil. Donovan's answering howl of shared pain intrigued him, but between the two of them the screaming was all but deafening. He touched her forehead and she went limp, leaving him only Duncan to contend with.

"You two do make a fascinating set. Sleep, Duncan. I will deal with you later."

Blessed silence fell. He put Donovan back in her own cell and attended to Duncan's finger, setting and splinting it, and dosed him with enough painkillers to keep it from waking him up any time soon. Once he'd been put in a holding cell to sleep it off, Von Ratched could see to Donovan. He would take care of it all himself; even Grieggs didn't need to be seeing this. Irritating though it was, some prices had to be paid to maintain the level of privacy he preferred.

Duncan was settled soon enough, and when he had Donovan properly laid out, he inspected her own finger. It was perfectly fine; the pain she'd felt from Duncan had been entirely empathetic. Interesting.

He fetched a hairbrush and went to work on her hair -- a task that was much easier performed when she was unconscious. She was right in thinking he'd first done it to unnerve her, but there was something pleasant about brushing it even when she wasn't awake enough to not appreciate it. True, it was in need of a good conditioner, but it was fine and very soft, the threads of grey among the black almost like silver.

It was a bit of a pity she was otherwise such a harsh, weathered little creature. Her bone structure might have made her quite pretty, but the life she'd obviously led had marked her -- there were hair-fine broken capillaries on her cheeks, and equally fine lines around her eyes. She looked like she'd spent a lot of time outdoors, totally without the benefit of sunscreen. Then again, given what he meant to put her through, it was probably a good thing she wasn't beautiful. Subjects who were too attractive could prove distracting in ways he didn't need.

When he was finally through he touched her forehead, determined to find the source of her stubborn protectiveness. Contact shouldn't be needed, but a lot of things that shouldn't be necessary turned out to be so where Donovan was concerned.

_Her mind at first seemed to be a mess, but it didn't take long for him to discover there was in fact a method to it. She'd repressed and compartmentalized quite a bit, and he dove deep to find the oldest of her mental prisons. He was careful to avoid the block that had so confounded him; working around that would take a lot of careful thought and effort._

_It didn't take long for him to find something that looked promising. A thread of memory led to a place very early in her childhood._

_Given how hard she's worked to repress it, it is surprisingly clear. It's of her house, a tiny, run-down thing in a poor area of Dublin. The paint in the living-room is peeling, worn grey Sheetrock showing through in places, and it smells strongly of whiskey and cigarettes. The carpet beneath her small bare feet is ancient and scratchy and threadbare in places, so stained its original color could not be guessed. She's eight years old on this hot summer evening, her soft child-hair stuck to her forehead with half-dried sweat. Though all the windows were open the house is stifling, the stench of stale smoke all but overpowering. How could anyone live like this?_

_Little Lorna doesn't find it odd. She doesn't mind the heat or mess or smell -- what she minds is her father, who is currently beating her older brother with his belt._

_The man looks remarkably like her, Von Ratched thinks. The same olive skin, sharp features, and shaggy black hair, but his eyes are hazel rather than her alarming green. Not a tall man, nor heavily built, and very obviously drunk._

_And here is tiny Lorna, launching herself across the fetid room and sinking her teeth into his hand. Her sense of taste was unfortunately acute, and within the memory Von Ratched grimaces at the sour tang of sweat and blood that filled his mouth. This is not, he realized, the first time she's done this; her father has small bite-scars all over his hand and forearm. Apparently she'd always been a small savage._

_The violent sting when the belt hit her head reminds him unpleasantly of his mother, but it doesn't bother Lorna much. It_ hurts _, but she is used to pain, and therein lay Von Ratched's answer: her protectiveness and her odd pride. She did indeed take things like this because she believes others weren't strong enough, and in her own warped way she is pleased by that. What a peculiar thing to take pride in. What a peculiar_ woman _, to think of such a thing. Her unconscious defense against this appalling childhood is to secretly believe those who hadn't shared it were somehow weak._

_Another memory now, post-fight. Little Lorna sitting on the filthy linoleum of the tiny bathroom, washing her brother's face. He's older than her, Von Ratched knows, and quite a bit bigger, but this is why he so often incurs their father's wrath._

_"Will y'hold still, y'eejit?" she asks, and even as a child her voice is peculiarly lovely. Were he not in her memory, he wouldn't have been able to understand her -- surprisingly, her adult accent is actually muted by comparison._

_"I don't need your help," her brother growls, as she dabs his split lip with a dirty cloth. His voice trembles, though, and unshed tears glitter at the corners of his blue eyes. His bravado is false, and Lorna knows it._

_"Oh, shut it," she says, standing up to wet the cloth at the rusty spigot over the sink. Terribly unsanitary, Von Ratched knows, even if she doesn't. "You do and you'll get it."_

_She dabs her brother's lip again, and Von Ratched is startled to find she's thinking out ways for her father to die. She fears him, but she also hates him -- a level of loathing no small child should be capable of. This is not the first time she's patched up one of her siblings, or her mother. They all fear her father, but she is the only one who has inherited his temper, who will throw it back at him with all the violence her tiny strength is capable of. No wonder her adult self is so prone to rage, to violence -- from her earliest memories, it is the only way she knows how to protect the ones she loves._

_From there Von Ratched finds another memory, this one of her mother. The woman looks nothing like Lorna -- her hair is curly and carrot-red, her eyes a haunted, faded blue. One of them is surrounded by a deep purple bruise, and her nose is swollen._

_It's cold in this memory, a damp, dreary Irish winter day. Her mother is wrapped in a stained, threadbare quilt, sitting on the broken-down couch. She holds a brush in one white, skeletal hand, and she's telling Lorna to sit. Her voice is much like Lorna's, strangely beautiful, but it sounds tired, defeated._

_Sit Lorna does, and her mother patiently combs the snarls from her long hair. The action gives her a small amount of peace, and now Von Ratched understands why she so hates having him brush her hair -- for as long as she can remember, that has been her mother's job, one of the few positive memories in her small life._

_Her mother will die in two years' time, of a cancer only discovered because her father beat her badly enough to put her in hospital. Lorna watches as day after day her mother's life fades away, until finally she finds rest and freedom from her husband's fists._

_Lorna's father winds up in prison, and she, her brothers, and sister are sent to foster homes. She can't stand her foster parents, who insist she go to school and church and expect her to adopt a kind of life totally foreign to her. Having spent her childhood running wild, she doesn't know how to handle adults who expect her to do as she's told, and she's too lost in her own grief and rage to understand why she should. She doesn't belong here, she knows, just as she knows her foster parents are no happier with her than she is with them._

_She runs away before they can send her back, figuring she's doing both them and herself a favor. It's another warm summer night when she goes, sneaking out the window with her few possessions. She might not like her foster-parents, but she's not about to steal from them._

_It's very late and very dark, the air chilling rapidly once full night has fallen. She's cold, but that's nothing new to her, and it doesn't occur to her that she ought to be afraid to roam Dublin at night. She did it often enough when her mother was alive, slipping out her bedroom window to wander. There is a freedom to it that nothing else has ever provided to her, and it offers her something close to peace. In the dark, unseen by anyone, she can weep, can grieve for her mother with no one to think her weak for her tears. For the first time in her life, she begins to know what catharsis is, even if she doesn't know the word for it._

_It's not long before she finds a gang, of a sort. Mostly made up of other young teenagers, they sleep rough in warehouses and do as they please. With them she learns how to laugh, how to be free and even often happy, but her temper remains, simmering at the bottom of her mind, given vent to when they get in skirmishes with other gangs. The adult criminal element might ignore them, but they're not the only and of runaways in the seedy part of Dublin._

_She secretly loves the infrequent fights, the chance to protect her adopted family and bleed off some of her aggression at the same time. Protecting them makes her feel strong, feel useful -- and she is strong, abnormally so for her size, and sometimes very vicious. It is a viciousness born of love, somehow, and when everything is over and her temper has run its course, she's almost maternal in the care she gives the other members of her gang. She hides her heart well, but it is there._

_And that, to Von Ratched, is the most difficult thing to fathom. Having never loved anyone or anything in his life, he can't understand the warmth she feels for these people. It's like nothing he's ever known -- fierce and violent, like Lorna herself, but it is more than that. It's the care with which she cleans and bandages wounds, the little songs she sings to distract her patients. And it really is warm, like the sun on a spring day, an unreserved, unconditional feeling so alien to him that he doesn't know what to do with it. It's a pure thing, something Lorna carefully hoards within her mind and heart, rarely fully showing it to anyone. She feels it, but she does not know how to express it, not really. It comes out in her protectiveness, somehow infuses both her temper and her violence. She protects with violence because it is all she knows how to do, all she has ever known._

_Lorna knows, in her heart, that she is not a good person. She knows that she could turn into her father if she is not careful. The people she loves, though, make her want to be a better person -- to harness her innate temper into something good, not something destructive. To her mind, someone has to be willing to fight the fights, to deal with the ugliness of the world so others will not have to. This is how she shows her love, the only way she can show it._

_And it confounds him. No matter how many of her memories he traverses, Von Ratched gains no more understanding. Love is weakness, of that he is sure. Lorna is sparing with it, so much so that only a handful of people have ever received it, but she keeps it because to her it is very strong. She loses a fiancé, he sees, and with it a pregnancy -- a thing that nearly destroys her -- but she loves the sister she lives with until she flees. She fears letting anyone else in, now, but it remains, a candle in the darkness of her mind. Yes, she is violent and angry and very dangerous to most people, but she attacks in defense of others because she cares._

_No wonder she is filled with so much rage. And now that he knows this…oh, the things he can do with it._

She was still dead asleep when Von Ratched left her mind, and he watched her a minute, thoughtful. Donovan barely knew Duncan, and she certainly had no strong attachment to him, yet she defended him as though he belonged to her. Would she do that for others, if she were allowed to? She was a stubborn creature, and a proud one, but after seeing so many of her memories, Von Ratched intended to watch her. To see how much of her full self she would reveal, by accident or by design. Strange, that one who shared his Gift could be so thoroughly his polar opposite.

What he really needed now was a third telepath. It was patently obvious that Donovan was likely never going to cooperate with him -- oh, she was fascinating, yes, but nowhere near an ideal subject. He probably couldn’t break her if he wanted to, but he didn't want to. Pushing her buttons, seeing what she would do under different kinds of stress, could be vastly entertaining, provided he could keep her from destroying everything in the process.

And he had to get behind that wall of hers. _Had_ to. There was nothing in her memory that could explain how it had come to be there, who had built it or what it hid. It was definitely not of her own construction -- had she somehow met up with another telepath, at some point in the past? There had to be a way around the damn thing. He would enjoy finding out how, even if she probably wouldn't. It was going to be a battle of wills, and Von Ratched thought that he'd finally found someone who could give him a run for his money.

This was going to be _fun._

\----

Not surprisingly, Lorna woke up feeling like absolute shit.

At least she wasn't in pain, but she was still unpleasantly drugged, and would have sold her left kidney for a cigarette. Now she remembered why she'd quit doing hard drugs years go.

She heard the soft sound of another person's breathing, and when she looked over she found Ratiri lying on a cot not far from hers. His face was ashy, one finger on his left hand splinted, but otherwise he looked okay. It was blessedly dim in here, and she let her eyes adjust before rolling to face him.

He was still asleep, and she'd let him stay that way as long as he could. If she'd had any idea latching onto his mind would land him like this…but then, she hadn't done it on purpose, and she still couldn't undo it. And now that Von Ratched knew about it…hell. Any time she pissed him off, he'd be able to use Ratiri as a threat. She had to get rid of this thing, for both their safety. God knew what Von Ratched would make her do, if he thought he had the ammunition.

"Don't turn it off," Ratiri mumbled, and she jumped.

"What?" 

He opened his eyes, still somewhat glazed. "Don't turn it off. Don't break it. As long as he's studying it, he won't do worse to us."

"I'm not sure I want to know what he'll do _with_ it," she sighed. "I'm sorry I dragged you into this."

He coughed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's not your fault. Better your mind latched onto me than him."

Lorna shuddered. "I think it would've let me go barking before it'd do that. Still not fair to you."

"This place isn't fair to anyone. But he's done…surgery…to people, and as long as we've got this, I don't think he'll do it to us. It's not like this thing is terribly invasive."

He sounded incredibly weary, and she knew he was right about one thing, at least: it wasn't invasive. She hadn't known it was there until Von Ratched pushed on it, and it seemed Ratiri hadn't, either. Being stuck with it wasn't actually a hardship -- the only bad thing was Von Ratched's testing methods.

She and Ratiri were both in relatively rotten shape, so hopefully he'd hold off on more tests until they were less bolloxed-up. _Wouldn't want to screw with the results,_ she thought, bitter. Lorna's knowledge of science was shaky at best, but she did know scientists like to control as much as possible in an experiment. No wonder Von Arsehole was one. He was even more controlling than her father, and that was downright disturbing.

"I wonder when he'll let us out," she said, half to herself.

"Hopefully soon. I thought the normal wings were bad, but this place is a nightmare."

Lorna shivered. "I haven't actually seen much've it. He keeps me knocked out most've the time."

They both lay quiet for a long while after that, just listening to one another breathe. Ordinarily she wasn't much of a chatterbox, and thankfully it seemed Ratiri wasn't, either. And quiet with company was infinitely better than solitary silence.

She didn't know how much time passed before Von Ratched came to them, but it was long enough for her head to clear a little.

"I am going to let you two go to the common room," he said. "And Donovan, you are going to behave yourself, or I will sedate you again. You are to tell no one of what went on here -- and rest assured, I will know if you do."

Lorna believed him. He'd probably be watching them both like a hawk, and wasn't _that_ an uncomfortable thought. "Got it," she said. "Are you not going to feed us?"

"You will eat there, and will continue to do so until the cafeteria is repaired."

It still wasn't? She couldn't have been in here very long, then. "Right." She just wanted out of here, and away from _him._

It was all she could do not to scurry down the hallway once they were released. It was morning, still relatively early, if the height of the sun was any indication. Not knowing precisely where they were, she didn't know just when sunrise was. It lit the hallways into something almost pleasant, and she felt herself relax a little. "I really hate to say this, but I hope he works on someone else a while," she sighed, fiddling with her hair, and froze. "That son've a bitch, he brushed my hair again."

Ratiri paused with her, giving her a confused look. "What?"

Lorna shook her head. "Nothing. It's just that he brushed my hair that first day in his office to creep me out, and now he's gone and done it again. It's a bit silly, but I really don't like strangers touching my hair." She started off down the hallway again, hoping he wouldn't think her entirely mental.

"In his case, I definitely don't blame you. Are you going to be all right, keeping your telekinesis under control?"

"I should be. It only shows up when I'm right scared, and the only thing that's scared me so far in here is him."

"You're probably going to get stared at," he warned, and she gave him a dry smile. His eyes, she noticed, were light for his complexion, a warm honey-brown, and they were looking at her with genuine concern. If he could worry so over someone who was near a stranger to him, there was probably a reason her mind latched onto his like a remora.

"That I can deal with. Come on, I'm starving."

People did stare, but she ignored it in favor of the buffet line. Pancakes this morning, along with fruit and orange juice and, wonder of wonders, tea. She pounced on that, and followed Ratiri to a couch. It contained Katje the hooker and, to her surprise, the old man from Pike Place Market. "You're _alive_?" Lorna asked, almost unspeakably relieved. "Did they lock you up for a bit, or were you just in hospital?"

"Hospital," he said, with a crooked, tired grin. "You been having fun here?"

"Let's go ahead and call it that," she snorted.

Katje gave her a full-blown smile, and that too was somehow relaxing. The woman seemed truly pleased to see her. "You know each other? Why am I not surprise."

"Got caught at the same time. I was hoping I wasn't the only one with a hard head."

"'Course not. Just don't go blowin' anythin' else up for a while, you hear me?"

Lorna groaned. "I'm never going to live that down, am I?"

"Probably not," Ratiri said, trying not to spill his tea as he sat. "It was the best thing any of us have yet seen in here."

"Brilliant," she sighed, and guzzled her own tea. It was ginger, hot and sweet, and it fortified her as nothing else could have. Her horror lingered, but it was bearable now, forced downward into a place she could try to contain it. The previous two days seemed like a nightmare, and she was trying desperately to deal with it as though they truly had been. It was that or go mad. Falling apart could wait until she had more privacy.

"Where were you two?" Katje asked. "What happen?"

"Happened," the old man corrected.

"Hush, you. I do not need English lesson from man who says 'ain't'. Even I know that is not a word."

Lorna laughed, then shivered. "We're not supposed to say," she said. "And I don't want to deal with _him_ again any time soon."

"Nor I," Ratiri added.

"Can you at least say what he do here?" Katje said, touching Lorna's bandaged temple.

"That I don't remember, and I don't want to. Avoid him as long's you can, you hear me? He's a lot worse than just nerve-wracking." 

She glanced around the sunny room, wishing she was anywhere else. At least in prison she only had to worry about the other inmates, and they let her alone once they realized she bit anyone who messed her about. She highly doubted that would have the same effect on Von Ratched. He'd probably pull out all her teeth.

When she'd finished her pancakes she pulled her hair over her shoulder and wove it into a long braid. She didn't know why she was so especially horrified at the idea of Von Ratched touching her hair when he'd done so much worse, but she was. Possibly because all the other things he'd done were experiments, whereas messing with her hair was personal. Too damn personal by half.

She found Ratiri looking at her, and wondered if he'd caught the thought. It was odd that though he was as tall as Von Ratched, he didn't make her feel small. Hell, _most_ people made her feel as small as she really was, but for some reason, he didn't. Must be a side-effect of spending time in his head. _He_ would never pick her up like she was a recalcitrant child. She'd have kicked Von Ratched for that, if she'd been coherent enough.

"So what is it you people do in here all day?" she asked, and Katje snorted.

"Not much. Play cards or chess, write on the walls, and try not to go stir-crazy. They are not good at giving entertainment."

Lorna chewed the inside of her cheek. "Which've you three plays chess?"

 

\----

Lorna, Ratiri discovered, was a ruthless chess player. He'd fancied himself good at the game, but she slaughtered him three games in a row.

"Where did you learn to play like that?" he asked, as she reset the board for a fourth round.

"Prison. About as little to do there as there is here. Where'd you learn?"

"My father taught me." He wanted to ask why she'd been in prison, but that was probably a subject best not pressed. "Why were you in America?"

"Same reason you prob'ly were," she said, shifting a pawn. "I thought it'd be easier to hide. I heard they had a cure there, but I wasn't about t' trust that. Sounded like a good way to just round us up and shoot us."

"We're the new Jews," he grimaced, trying to figure out how she meant to destroy him this round. "Tell me Von Ratched doesn't seem like a modern-day Mengele."

"Can't, because he does. My gran was Romani, and most've her family died in Auschwitz -- she'd probably have some words to say about him. Wonder what she'd make've the rest've this." She paused, looking up at him. "Do you believe it's what they say it is on the news? Do you think it's magic?"

He was a long while in answering. "I don't know," he said at last. "I'm a doctor -- I shouldn't believe in things like that, but I wouldn't have believed anyone could wind up like us if I hadn't seen it. I don't know what else it could be. Scientifically, this whole situation is impossible."

She captured his rook in two neat moves. "My brother read _X-Men_ as a kid. You think it's something like that? Some sort've mutation?"

He shook his head. "Even if genetics worked that way, this has been too random, sudden, and fast to make any scientific sense. What you do, for example, would kill you if something in you was physically responsible for it in its entirety. The amount of energy needed for the kind of telekinesis you've displayed would shut your body down within a few minutes. No human being could produce so much unaided. As much as I hate the word magic, I'm afraid we're stuck with it until some better term comes along."

Down went one of his knights. "So what's caused it? Why now? I'm starting to wonder if it's alien space bats or something."

Ratiri grimaced again. "As an explanation, that's as hard for me to swallow as magic, but I suppose it's possible."

Lorna paused. "I wonder what they'll do with us all, if they do figure it out."

"Herd us into showers with no water, more than likely," he said, grim. "There's no way they can let us go, after all that's been done here."

She cast him an appalled look, and he answered it with a humorless smile. "If it makes you feel any better, most of the staff would probably be purged with us. The doctor doesn't seem like the kind of person who would consider anyone invaluable."

She dropped her own rook. "Well, there goes what little peace've mind I had. I wonder if they'd let us go for a walk? I can't bloody sit still now."

"I'm not sure anyone's ever asked. You could try Hansen -- he seems like a decent sort."

Lorna went, and he wished he hadn't said all that. Not when she'd just started calming down.

While she was away, Nurse Grieggs came and summoned Katje. "Doctor wants to see you," she said, and there was a smoky smugness in her aura he didn't like at all. Katje glanced at him, more worried than she was letting on, and he tried to give her an encouraging smile. He couldn't quite manage it.


	6. Chapter Six

Katje followed the nurse, summoning her equanimity. This was Von Ratched's first session with her -- hopefully he wasn't going to do anything nasty right away. Besides, he was a man, and she was quite good at manipulating men. Well, except for Ratiri, but she hadn't really tried with him. He was so melancholy at times that it didn't seem fair.

Grieggs led her to a room that fortunately looked like any ordinary exam room. She sat on the table and fluffed her hair, wishing for the hundredth time that she had some conditioner. Already she was getting split ends. 

She regarded Von Ratched with a calculating gaze when he came in. He really was rather attractive, if you could look past his undeniable creepiness, and he regarded her with a type of appreciation she could definitely work with. She'd been extremely successful in her profession for a reason -- she'd been a very high-priced call girl before fleeing to America, not a run-of-the-mill prostitute. And men, regardless of their job or education or background, were in certain ways very simple creatures.

“Now, DaVries, I am going to attach these to your scalp, and I want you to turn this mug into a plate.” He held up several wires with suction-cup like pads at the ends. “Just relax, this won’t hurt a bit.”

Katje eyed the wires somewhat dubiously. “You want to stick those on my head?” she asked. “They will not make holes, will they?”

Von Ratched smiled, holding up what he probably thought was a placating hand. “Of course not. This is a standard EEG machine, DaVries. I assure you, it will leave no mark.” He attached the wires with a dab of gel and turned to the machine. “Now, a plate, if you please.”

Katje concentrated, and the cup became a plate with a faint pop. Von Ratched watched the paper-feed intently, then turned to the plate, apparently somewhat amused to find it bordered by pink rosebuds.

“Very good...now, an animal, if you will -- perhaps you may have a pet.”

Katje shook her head. “I no can do that,” she said.

He looked up at her. “Why not?”

“The plate, it is not alive -- I no can make it into something living. Living thing must be other living thing, no matter what.”

Von Ratched noted all this on a clipboard as she spoke. “Are you certain you could not transform the plate into an animal?”

She nodded. “I try to make a shoe into a kitten, and I wound up with salad forks. I no make life, only change things.” She touched one of the wires. “I maybe take these off? The gel will ruin my hair.”

He handed her at tissue and picked up the plate, turning it over in his gloved hands.

“Most interesting...all right, DaVries, please take off your shirt.”

She snorted, and when he looked up he found her sitting with crossed arms and raised eyebrows.

“Doctor, if you are thinking of that, we first must work out method of payment,” she said, wagging a finger at him.

He nearly dropped the plate. “What?” he said.

She shrugged elegantly. “I no work for free, you know,” she said, buffing her nails on her trousers. “Money is useless, obviously. Give me chocolate, hand lotion, and nice shampoo, and then we will have deal.”

Von Ratched blinked. And blinked again. He stared at her for a very long moment, before finally leaning back against the counter and crossing his own arms.

“...What kind of chocolate?”

\------

Fortunately, Hansen was willing to let Lorna and Ratiri go outdoors for a while.  
Nobody else seemed particularly interested (probably because they didn’t want their ears frozen off by the still-frigid wind), so Ratiri and Lorna alone found themselves outfitted with heavy parkas and thick trousers. Dr. Hansen escorted them to a wide courtyard that stood off the back of their building -- a high chain-link fence surrounded it, topped with razor wire, but the ground it enclosed was dotted with the first wildflowers that heralded the beginning of the chill Alaskan spring. For once, the sky was cloudless and almost impossibly blue, the air as chilly as he’d expected, stinging Ratiri’s face, but it was almost inexpressibly wonderful to be _outside._

Lorna was delighted by this -- she wandered to and fro, kneeling beside certain plants and fingering their leaves with a professional gentility that Ratiri found oddly endearing. He himself was more than glad to feel fresh air again, even if it was bitter cold. He sat on a low stone bench with Dr. Hansen and watched Lorna flit about, examining all the flowers and occasionally picking some. Out here her aura was almost blinding, alive with color and light beneath the wintry sun. She moved much slower outdoors, calmer and more at ease, and Ratiri sat back, content to watch her in what was obviously a more natural habitat.

He glanced at Hansen, who seemed equally relaxed. The man’s aura was predominantly bluish-green, a color common among scientists and others of curious nature, and Ratiri had an idea that he had no clue about Von Ratched’s deep-seated malevolence. Ratiri didn’t know much about American government, but he’d bet his next meal that Hansen had been drafted to this project.

“Where are we?” he asked abruptly, looking out across the flat scrubland.  
Hansen gave a start. “The technical name is the Alaskan National Institute for the Criminally Insane,” he said, with a slight quirk of his lips that told Ratiri he was fully aware of the name’s irony. “We all just refer to it as the Institute.”

“So we _are_ in Alaska?”

Hansen gave him a dry look. “You didn’t hear that from me,” he said. “I can say that you, me -- everything here is so classified I doubt even the President knows about it.” He watched Lorna as she gathered some small, starry white flowers off a low-growing shrub. In the sunlight the bandages on her temples stood out blindingly, small pale squares against her olive skin.

“What did Von Ratched do to her?” Ratiri asked. “I had a look at her wounds this morning -- no standard test requires puncturing of the temples, you know that as well as I do."

Hansen shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “Dr. von Ratched is a singularly brilliant man, however -- it’s likely he’s invented instruments. Whatever he did, it seems to have done her no harm."

Ratiri had to agree with that, albeit reluctantly. “He's a telepath, as well as telekinetic,” he said after a moment, glancing sidelong at Hansen to gauge his reaction.

Hansen shook his head again. “Wouldn’t surprise me,” he said. “None of us knows much about him -- he’s worked for the government for I don’t know how long. He’s freakishly intelligent -- apparently he dabbled in astrophysics and biochemistry before he began working with the…mentally disturbed.”

Hansen fell silent, and Ratiri perceived that there was much unspoken behind those words -- Hansen was clearly as leery of the man as the rest of them.

“He scares you, doesn’t he?” Ratiri asked bluntly.

Hansen seemed to consider a moment. “Dr. von Ratched isn't a man to be trifled with,” he said at last, very carefully. “So long as you’re not incompetent, however, he’s usually not that difficult to work with, but he's very…cold.” _That_ was an understatement and a half, but it looked like he knew it. "Truth be told, I haven't worked with him very long."

He said no more, for Lorna wandered over, her hands filled with small wildflowers. The sunlight lit up the faint crow’s feet and laugh-lines around her eyes, and the wind had blown her wispy hair into a fine frizzy mess.

“Doc, y’ should let us build a garden out here,” she said, sitting on the ground before them. “Sure, there’s enough native flowers, and we could bring more in -- make it lovely out here.”

“…That’s actually not a bad idea,” Gerald said, “Provided the weather ever cooperates. I take it you know something about plants?”

“Oh, aye. It was my job, unofficially, once upon a time. I could make a grand garden out here, if you’d let me.”

“I’ll speak with the rest of the staff about it -- Lord knows it solves the problem of an exercise program. I trust I may leave you alone for a moment?”

“I dunno,” Lorna said, “you turn your back on us, and we might start sprouting extra arms.”

“Ha-very-ha. I see Ms. DaVries coming; I’ll trust her to chaperone you for a moment. Please, excuse me.” He rose and headed for the main building, passing a well-bundled Katje, who was carrying a large paper grocery sack, and Geezer, who as usual looked a little lost.

Ratiri glanced at Katje, shrugged, and then froze himself.

“Katje,” he said, in a voice strained either by repressed laughter or repressed censure, “do you really think it wise to ply your trade in this setting?”

Katje blinked those sky-blue eyes. “What?” she said, setting down her bag of plunder.

Ratiri raised his eyebrows. “Your aura is pink, and you’ve suddenly grown rather wealthier in small commodities. I do not think the two are coincidental.” Katje flushed slightly, and Geezer gave her a reproving look.

“You said those were bonuses for being a good patient,” he said, picking a plastic-wrapped square of fudge out of the bag.

She waved a hand. “They were,” she said. “I was very good patient.”

Lorna looked sharply up at her, her eyes gone round as coins and her face paling five shades in as many seconds. 

“Oh, Katje, you _didn't_ ,” she said, going a delicate shade of green. “Jesus, Mary, an’ Joseph, that’s disgusting.”

“What?” Ratiri and Geezer asked in unison.

Lorna shook her head, horrified. “She…she…ICK.” She shuddered, stopping her ears with her hands as though in an effort to block out unwanted thoughts.

Katje snorted. “Oh, please,” she said, helping herself to more fudge. “Is business, and he certainly pay well.” She popped the fudge into her mouth and settled back contentedly.

Ratiri gave her a suspicious look. “Who pays well?”

“Take a wild guess,” Lorna said darkly, edging away as though fearing contamination.

Ratiri’s eyes bugged. “Katje, you _didn’t_ ,” he echoed, suddenly understanding Lorna’s horror. “How did that even come to be an option?”

Katje shrugged. “He say ‘take off your shirt’ and I say ‘not until we work out method of payment.”

Ratiri groaned. “Katje, he’s a _doctor_. If he says take off your shirt, he doesn’t mean for _that._ ”

Katje blinked; clearly this had not occurred to her. She shrugged again. “Well, he certainly didn’t protest when I think different,” she said.

Geezer choked, finally comprehending the finer details of the conversation. “Wait, you slept with _Von Ratched_?”

“Why not? Is business -- he say he will pay, and he pay. I no see you with chocolate and booze.”

It seemed Lorna could take no more, for she abandoned her flowers and leapt to her feet, disappearing into the main building and reappearing some minutes later with a tinfoil hat attached securely to her head like some sort of World War I-era trench helmet. She must have grabbed it from the Activities Room, because he couldn't imagine anyone letting her into the kitchen.

“I’ll never look at that stethoscope the same way again,” she said accusingly.

Ratiri paused, looking thoughtful. “I don’t want to know,” he said, shaking his head.

“No,” Lorna said darkly. “You don’t.” She still looked more than a little green.  
“And Katje, that shouldn’t be anatomically possible.”

Katje smirked. “It pays to be flexible, in my business,” she said, and both Ratiri and Geezer sputtered.

Dr. Hansen presently came back for them, and though he looked questioningly at Lorna’s headgear, he made no comment. “It’s nearly lunch time,” he said, eying Katje’s bag of goodies. “Though perhaps you’ve already eaten.”

“Katje certainly has,” Geezer muttered, and Lorna and Ratiri snorted. It was so strange, to be amused by anything, but he really couldn't help it. His sanity needed it.

Katje raised her eyebrows. “Ah, now Geezer, I’m always hungry,” she said, rising to her feet and picking up her bag. All three of them choked, and Hansen blinked, bewildered.

“Erm, yes, if you’ll follow me,” he said, eying them all as though wondering if they needed straight-jackets. They trooped in after him and shed their heavy coats, glad to be back in the warmth of the big building, and Hansen led them to the cafeteria. Geezer, Ratiri, and Lorna all kept a conscientious distance from Katje, like children afraid to touch one infected with cooties, and Lorna touched her tinfoil helmet to make certain it was secure. She got several odd looks as they crossed to their usual table, but given that most of the people in this place were by now more than half cracked, nobody did more than look.

Hansen joined them at their corner table. “I spoke with Dr. von Ratched about the garden idea -- fortunately he was in a good mood, so he said yes. I haven’t got the faintest clue what will grow up here, but I suppose you will, Ms. Donovan.” He did his best not to eye her strange headgear as the little group gave a collective snort -- they knew damn well why Von Ratched was in such a good mood. Only Katje remained silent, no doubt dismissing it all as side effects of ‘business’.

Ratiri glanced at Lorna. Disgusted though she was, she seemed in much better shape than she'd been before they went outside. He knew he was, too, and wasn't that odd -- he wouldn’t have thought his mood could be lifted by a cheerfully unrepentant prostitute who seemed to genuinely see nothing wrong with sleeping with a total monster for chocolate and conditioner. There was no desperation in Katje, something Ratiri had hitherto associated with prostitutes; she didn't even seem put out that she'd had to put out, and Ratiri suspected it might be impossible to make that woman feel used. From what it appeared, in her mind she was the one doing all the using. Which made a twisted kind of sense, even if Ratiri would never understand it in a million years. Maybe she could start her own business, trading for amenities, as long as she didn't make anyone else work for it.

Lorna must have caught the thought, for she choked on her water, and that was how Von Ratched found her, wheezing and coughing with a tinfoil hat on her head. The situation was so ridiculous she probably couldn't be as afraid as she should be.

"Donovan, do I _want_ to ask?"

"Probably not," Katje said. 

He looked from Lorna to Katje, and back again. "Oh," he sighed. "Come along, Donovan. I believe I can remedy your…problem."

And _there_ was the fear. Ratiri felt it as clearly as though it were his own. Oh God, she'd been hoping she'd seen the last of him for a while. She cast a slightly helpless glance at Ratiri, who half-rose to follow them, but Von Ratched said, "I will return her in one piece, Duncan. Sit _down_."

Ratiri did, very slowly, and Von Ratched led Lorna off. 

\----

She had to practically jog to keep up with him -- oh, she hated tall people, especially ones who hadn't the grace to make allowances for her short self. Annoyance was good, though; if she was annoyed, she wasn't afraid. And maybe Ratiri was right -- maybe he wouldn't do worse than he'd already done, so long as the pair of them were linked at the brain.

They wound up in his office, and she tried to ignore the automatic discomfort the place instilled in her. Given how their last meeting in here had gone, it wasn't easy.

"Sit," he ordered, pointing not to the chair, but to a low tan couch. "And take that thing off your head. You don't need it here." She did, combating the urge to make a face at him. After all he'd done to her, how could she _still_ have the urge to needle him? Had she somehow gone suicidal without noticing? Something in her simply wouldn't let her roll over and give in, however safer that might be, and she wondered if that trait might get her killed soon. Though if Ratiri was right, they were all going to die here eventually.

The thought was weirdly…freeing, at least for now. In some twisted way the idea of her impending death, however distant, actually calmed her. Maybe she really was losing her mind.

Von Ratched looked at her curiously, and drew the armchair around so he could sit facing her. The sunlight filtered through the blinds made his eyes glint in a way that was wholly disturbing. "Do you think I am going to kill you, Lorna?"

She blinked a little at his use of her first name, but answered honestly. "Yes," she said. "I'm pretty damn sure you will. What else'd you do with us, when you're done here?"

He sat back and crossed his arms. "What makes you think I will ever be done with you?"

That gave her pause. She automatically shifted to sit cross-legged, as she always did on furniture that was too tall, and gave the question due consideration. "This place can't be cheap to run," she said at last. "And there's only so much you can do to any one've us before we cop it." Honestly, she found the idea that he might _not_ kill them far worse. The thought of a long lifetime in this hellhole just wasn't to be borne.

"Do you want to die, Donovan?" he asked, more curiously still. He was looking at her so intently she could almost feel it.

"Not particularly," she said. "Much more shite like what you did to Ratiri and I, though -- well, I'm not sure the idea'd be so unappealing then. Tell me something," she added. "How often d'you hurt us in ways you don't have to?"

He was quiet for some time, and she wondered how badly she'd pissed him off. "Nobody else has ever dared ask me that," he said at last.

"Aye, well, my sister always said I was a bit've an idiot. If we're all going to die here, how much have I really got to lose?" Now _she_ was getting pissed off. 'Nobody has ever dared'…who did this asshole think he was?

_A sociopath who'll probably cut your tongue out if you don't shut up_ , her mind supplied.

"I would never do that," he said. "You are far too entertaining with it. To answer your question: rarely. I subdue people if I must, but the pain I inflict has reason. Even if not reason you can appreciate."

Lorna scowled at him, hating how easily he read her mind. He arched an eyebrow, pulling off his gloves.

"If you hate that, you are really going to hate this. There is no way for me to simply instruct you to build your own defense -- I'm going to have to do it for you."

She paled, eying his white, spider-like hands. "Why the gloves?" she asked, a little desperately, trying to stall.

"People do not like me touching them," he said, a little sardonically. "In your case, it is necessary. This will not hurt, though it will likely feel rather strange."

She looked back up at his face, and realized there was no getting out of this. _Shit_. "You really aren't going to let this go, are you?"

Von Ratched arched an eyebrow. "You would truly rather be at the mercy of your uncontrolled telepathy?"

"Uh, _yeah_ ," she retorted. "In case you hadn't noticed, you're not the most reassuring person in the world. I think I'd rather have Katje in my head, and she's a right pervert."

"You have no idea," he said dryly, and she grimaced.

"Will you just shut it?" She had to fight the urge to clap her hands over her ears like a child, and then had to try not to kick him when he laughed.

"You would really like to hit me right now, wouldn't you?" he asked, and though he'd stopped laughing it still showed in his eyes.

"It's tempting," she groused. "Fine. Let's get this over with."

He laid a hand on either side of her face, his palms just below her wounded temples, and Lorna tried not to flinch. She didn't wonder why people hated him touching them -- his hands were dry and fever-hot, like a snake that had lain in the sun all day. How on Earth had Katje -- ugh. No. Not going anywhere near there. She shut her eyes, and tried to pretend she was anywhere else.

A moment later, her distaste was overridden by surprise. Threads of light began to shimmer behind her eyes, fine as spider silk and vaguely opalescent. They wove together like a spider web, too, joining one another in places that at first seemed random. This wasn't so bad after all. He was right -- it did feel a little strange, tingling like a limb that had fallen asleep, but it didn't hurt.

It did feel rather violating, though, a sensation that grew with every passing minute. She shifted uncomfortably, wondering how much longer this was going to take. The web seemed to be finished, for after a while it sat unchanged, but still Von Ratched lingered. Her mind started to feel like it was itching, of all things, and she realized with horror that he was simply exploring it now.

"Get off!" she cried, and now she did hit him, punching him in the chest with what force she could muster at such an odd angle. The web… _stretched,_ springing like an elastic band, and when Lorna opened her eyes she found him laughing at her. Again.

"You are such a _twat_ ," she snapped, scrambling to her feet in the sofa. "Does it say in your contract you've got to be an utter bastard, or does that just come naturally?" She was good and furious now -- not just because she felt so violated, but because she hated, _hated_ being laughed at.

He stood, and she was irritated to find that even on the couch, he was still taller than her. "You are completely incapable of keeping your thoughts to yourself, aren't you?" Bastard was still smirking at her, looking at her like she was some particularly amusing toddler. Rage drove all her common sense out the window, and her hand shot out and grabbed his collar. 

"Least I'm high enough now to do this right," she retorted, and slammed her forehead into his nose.

It hurt. Headbutting always did, but the point was to cause the other person more pain. It didn't knock him over as she'd hoped, but it surprised him enough for her to jam her hand against his solar plexus. That should have felled him like a tree, but no such luck -- he seized a handful of her hair and used it to drag her off the couch, kicking all the way. Somehow she got a hand at his throat, but her hands were too small to be any good at strangling a grown adult.

He grabbed her wrist and twisted, and through some acrobatic feat she'd never be able to fathom flipped her around so he'd pinned her arms against her sides, her back to his chest. Asshole didn't even sound out of breath when he said, "I'm curious, Donovan. Why do you begin fights you know you cannot win?"

"Go hifreann leat," she snarled, more because it would annoy him than anything else. "Snaidhm bundúin ort." She drove the heel of her foot into his ankle, but he had her trapped and they both knew it.

"In English, please."

Lorna blew a wisp of fury-frizzed hair out of her eyes. "Trust me, you don't want that translated," she growled. "You've made your point -- let me go."

"Not until you tell me what that meant," he said.

He was going to hurt her for this. His arm was already so tight around her ribs she could hardly draw breath; it wouldn't take much to crush them entirely. _How_ could he be so strong? Her skin was prickling with rage, made all the worse by the fact that it now had no outlet. "It means 'may your arsehole be knotted'," she said, and tried to snap her head back into his throat. Goddammit, she was just too short to deal with someone like him. "There, I told you. Now let. Bloody. Go."

"What a fascinating language." He gave her hair a slight tug, just enough to hurt. "If I let you go, will you behave?"

"What are you, five?" she snapped. "This isn't primary school, you twat, so stop pulling my bloody hair!" She tried to kick him again, with as little result as before, but two seconds later his new desk lamp exploded.

_That's turning into tradition_ , she thought wildly, as shattered glass went whizzing past her face, followed by, _Wait, I did that on purpose._

An overwhelming feeling of lassitude hit her like a brick, and when Von Ratched put her back on the couch she couldn't even try to move.

"You did, didn't you?" he said, kneeling in front of her. "You wanted it to break and it did. And yet you have no training at all."

Something in his tone filled her with dread. She was certainly in for more testing now, more pain and more needles, and what if he dragged Ratiri into it, too? Oh God, she hoped not. This was all her doing, not his.

"Not my fault you drove me to it," she said. "You've no one but yourself to blame." Let him get pissed off at her and only her.

"Satire doesn't suit you, Donovan," Von Ratched said, desert-dry, and when he rose she tried valiantly to get up. It felt like he'd drugged her, yet there had been no needle -- had he done this to her just by getting in her head?

"I think you would rather not know what else I am capable of doing to your mind," he said, returning with that damn hairbrush. "Keep pushing me and you may one day find out."

"Bogshite," Lorna ground out, and couldn't help but cringe when he grabbed her hair and pulled it over the back of the couch. 

"English again. More or less." He sounded so pleased she wished she could spit on him.

She pointedly said nothing when he started brushing her hair, though her skin crawled so much she thought she might be sick. Instead she mentally ran through every Irish invective she knew, wishing like hell she could make his head explode.

He laughed again, but it was so quiet she could barely hear it. "I do like you, Donovan, although I'm puzzled as to _why_. For your own sake, I suggest you remain entertaining."

She wondered what he'd do if she committed suicide. It wasn’t something she planned on, but it would probably infuriate him to no end. The thought was enough of a distraction to keep her from screaming, if only just. Bugger him -- if it was entertainment he wanted, she'd be as silent and sullen as a bump on a log.

"Oh Donovan," he sighed. "Sooner or later you will learn you cannot win. Off you go. Do not wander on your way."

She just barely managed not to glare at him as she left, and when she shut the door behind her she finally dared draw a real breath. Honestly, she wasn't sure which was worse, Von Ratched the scientist or Von Ratched the…whatever the hell he'd been in there. If that passed for his sense of humor, she definitely didn't want to amuse him anymore.

The hallway was actually warm as she headed back to the Activities Hall, the sun dying a bloody death through the western windows. The faint smell of floor-wax and bitter disinfectant wasn't pleasant, but she was already getting used to it. That disturbed her a little; she didn't want to get acclimated to this place. To do so would be to accept she wasn't getting out.

Now that she was away from Von Ratched, she was seriously considering trying. She had some very basic survival skills, and with her telekinesis it wouldn't be hard to get out of the Institute itself. The trick would be doing it when nobody would notice, to give her enough of a head start on her pursuers, and _that_ was the part that for now seemed impossible.

_You could probably just kill them all_.

The thought made her stop dead. It was right: if she could properly harness her telekinesis, she might be able to destroy half the Institute. But how many innocent people would die if she did? She still didn’t know how many inmates were in here, and Hansen was all right -- maybe there were more staff like him. Lorna had done some nasty things in her life, but she wasn't a murderer, and didn't think she ever could be. She did have morals, however warped they might be.

She started onward again, shaking her head. There had to be other options, but she couldn't see them yet. Anything she might even think of would require dropping off Von Ratched's radar; she had to wait until he got bored with her and Ratiri and moved onto some other poor bastard.

Dinner had been served by the time she got to the Activities Hall -- thick stew with dumplings, and chilled apple cider. She had to admit, the food here was a lot better than anything she'd had in prison or normal hospitals. Carefully balancing her tray, she went to join Ratiri, Katje, and the old man, silently testing her new telepathic block. At least _that_ seemed to work; it felt like it had been ages since she'd been able to be alone in her head in a crowded room. Von Ratched had actually given her something good, however unpleasant the experience had been.

"You're all right," Ratiri said, and it was half a question. Lorna wondered just what he saw in her aura.

"I am," she said. _More or less_. The trick would be remaining that way for more than a day at a time.

\----

That evening Von Ratched watched the news, wanting to know what was going on in the world outside his little kingdom. It was about what he had expected.

Unsurprisingly, things around the world had destabilized. Rapidly. A pretty anchorwoman in a red suit tried to remain chipper as she spoke of lynch mobs and mass shootings, but there was an anxiety in her brown eyes that even the tasteful lighting couldn't hide.

The cursed were fighting back. In Germany a group had taken over the Konigsbank Tower: footage showed most of the windows broken, the morning sun glittering on the bits of ruined glass that remained. The military had tried to launch a Scudd missile at it, but someone had exploded it before it reached halfway, killing most of the soldiers. 

_Electropath_ , he thought, sipping his drink. The tonic water made the ice cubes fizz, softening the bitterness of the gin, and he smiled grimly as the camera carefully panned high enough to avoid the bodies. He'd really like to get his hands on one of them, but they would probably be even harder to manage than Donovan.

In Moscow, a rogue weather-manipulator caused a thunderstorm that lit half the city on fire. Distant footage showed a column of greasy black smoke that rose almost to the stratosphere. That, he thought, was likely an accident; people with the ability almost certainly couldn't control it well enough to do something so drastic on purpose. Long lines of panicked refugees fled with whatever they could carry, cars pressed bumper-to-bumper on smoke-screened highways. The cacophony of horns almost drowned out the anchor's narration.

In America a massive earthquake had leveled much of San Francisco, but that had to be purely natural. No terrakinetic could create something that destructive. It didn't stop the media blaming it on the cursed, and Von Ratched thought sardonically that every disaster from here on out would be laid at their feet. Ironically, his inmates were safer here than they would be outside, though nobody would ever convince them of it.

The phone rang, and with a sigh he rose to answer it, knowing already who it would be.

"What is it now, Andrew?" he asked, forgoing any actual greeting. "You had better have a new complaint for me."

The man who styled himself as Von Ratched's superior swallowed. He'd learned already that badgering the doctor would get him nowhere, but someone above him had to be insisting. "I've been told to get a progress report," he said, neatly passing the blame to someone else.

"And I told you I would give you one when I had anything to report," Von Ratched retorted, sipping his drink. "Even I cannot work miracles. We have been here less than a month, and I told you all at the outset this might take years. It's not my fault you cannot hold things together until I am through."

"Doctor, they're already talking about cutting your funding," Andrew said, a little desperately. He clearly didn't want to be the bearer of such news, because he knew Von Ratched -- what he was capable of, and what he was willing to do.

"I hope you told them what a terrible idea that would be. Do not make me come down there, Andrew. None of you would like the results. I elevated many of your employers, and I can destroy them just as easily. No one is going to take what I have here."

"Nobody _knows_ that, Doctor," Andrew said, sounding more desperate than ever. "Even I don't know how many fingers you've got in this pie."

"And you do not want to," Von Ratched said flatly. "Remind them what I did to the last government I worked for. Crossing me would be the last thing you would ever do."

He hung up, and sighed again. Until now his employers knew better than to interfere with his work, but there were too many new people, and many of them thought he was the Devil incarnate. One would think that would make them smart enough not to annoy him, but he knew just how many idiots held power they shouldn't be allowed to touch. If he had to travel so far south to deal with them, they would regret it for the rest of their very short lives. Normally he considered killing for the sake of it beneath him, but he was always willing to make exceptions. Perhaps an example needed to be made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Katje. She will never, ever understand why the othes would think there was anything wrong with her profession of choice -- and even if she did, she'd hardly care


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Ratiri.

_That night Ratiri dreamed, a dream so sharp and so vivid he was sure he beheld it with his waking eyes._

_He was in a garden, a vast, wild place quite unlike all the tidy plots he'd left behind in London. Cool grass soft as velvet oozed between his bare toes, the glow of a full moon silvering tall flowers he couldn't name. By day they would be a riot of color, but now they were muted, limned with a light that almost glittered._

_And it was amazingly peaceful, this clear night air, soft as summer. He couldn't remember ever feeling this tranquil, not even during his childhood wandering over Scottish moors. The tension he'd carried since he came to the Institute was gone, and he felt awake in a way he'd never before known._

_After a moment he realized he wasn't alone -- dozens of others were joining him on the massive lawn, silent, but their auras told him they were as at peace as he. Some he recognized from the Institute, but most were strangers, moving like curious children in whatever passed for their pajamas. For a moment he wondered if they'd all be drawn into some warped, adult variation of Peter Pan, dragged away from ordinary life by some inhuman force._

_They were gravitating toward a massive willow beside a low, gurgling stream. He found Lorna along the way, and took her hand without thinking -- he hadn't realized how very small her hands were. It was warm in his, her fingers slightly callused, and she looked up at him with a smile that lit up her eyes like twin green suns. She didn't say anything, and neither did he; in this place, silence wasn't a bad thing._

_When they drew near the tree he saw a woman seated beneath it, on a boulder carpeted in moss. Her skin was as brown as earth after rainfall, her long dark hair like wispy lichen. She wore a long robe of shifting, multifarious green, encompassing every shade from spring leaves to the darkness of fir-needles. Even sitting Ratiri could see she had to be incredibly tall -- a good eight feet, if he was any judge, and her black eyes regarded them all with a sadness that felt as old as the stars._

_"My children," she said, and her voice was so beautiful it almost hurt. It sounded, oddly, a little like Lorna's voice, minus the incredibly thick accent. "I call you here to tell you greater change is coming. War is coming, though you may stave it off for some years yet. There are those among you who turn from me, and are already sowing seeds of immense destruction. You must fight it with all you have in you, for I cannot stop it. I cannot change what you are, and there are those who in their arrogance would begin things they cannot control."_

Von Ratched, _he thought. The man was, after all, arrogance personified, and Ratiri didn't want to imagine anyone else capable of creating as much destruction as he could. But sending people to war…that didn't seem his style at all. He was a shadow-man, conducting his work as secretly as he could. He wasn't likely to reveal himself to the world at large -- but if not him, who? Could there really be someone even worse than him, waiting for their chance?_

_Any worry the thought might have given him was drained by the odd power of this garden. It was saving itself for when he woke, and then it might hit him with a vengeance. Let it wait -- let the whole damn world wait. He would stay here as long as he could._

_The woman vanished quicker than a blink, leaving them alone in this strange, lovely place. He and Lorna wandered down the stream, still silent, listening to its low chuckle. He hadn't stood beside a brook since he was a child, and now he sat, rolled up the legs of his pants, and stuck his feet in it. It was icy, but wonderful. Lorna grinned and joined him, kicking at the water and splashing them both. How had he never noticed how pretty she was? But maybe it was this place that made her so. She looked as at home here as he felt, happy in a way they both definitely wouldn't be capable of in the Institute._

_Even the thought that they'd wake to that nightmare of a place couldn't disturb him here. And maybe, when he did wake, things would not seem so awful._

\----

Von Ratched had no pleasant dreams, and woke in no good mood. The previous evening's conversation with Andrew Crupps still rankled, and he wondered who he'd have to kill for it .

Repairs to the cafeteria had finally been completed, so for once he went down there to eat. He wanted to observe the inmates in their new surroundings, and see how they reacted to the changes. 

The long windows were gone, replaced by walls of solid concrete, with a narrow strip of barred glass high above. It would be some time yet before Donovan could make a dent in it, and he wanted to see how many people would blame her, consciously or not. Thanks to her first evening here, some of the inmates regarded her as a possible catalyst for change, and he wanted to show them that was not a good thing.

The new walls made it echo terribly, and sweated chilly condensation, but to his very great surprise, nobody _minded_. They sat at the long tables like the prisoners they were, under the harsh light of bare bulbs, but the collective mood was far more positive than he'd ever felt it. _What_ was this? Even his entrance did little to dampen it, and that was scarcely short of mind-boggling. It was like they were only peripherally aware of his presence.

He gathered his breakfast and sat at the staff table. It made many of _them_ rather uncomfortable, but he ignored them, focusing instead on Wrigley, a fair-haired young man with Coke-bottle glasses and rampantly uncontrollable pyrokinesis. He was heavily sedated, and his mind should have been an open book, but to Von Ratched's immense surprise, at first it seemed empty.

Not empty, he realized after a moment. Whatever was going on in his foremost thoughts was somehow…hidden. Not blocked -- a block he could feel, could break. This was something entirely beyond his ken, and it did not make him happy.

He glanced at Donovan, though he knew this couldn't possibly be her doing. She was surveying the room herself, occasionally shoving her hair back over her shoulder when it threatened to trail into her food, and he got the feeling she wasn't deliberately ignoring him -- she simply didn't care that he was staring at her. If this somehow made her more combative, he'd be sorely tempted to break both her legs. She certainly wouldn't be able to kick him then.

For now she looked peaceable enough, though, and so did the rest of the room. Whatever this was, it wasn't a budding rebellion, and that only confounded him further. The echoing voices were pleased, not nervous or fearful, and the entire crowd radiated a suppressed excitement that would spell trouble for the orderlies in the Activities Hall. Perhaps today would be a good day to let a few more outside, to plot Donovan's garden project. That would at least wear them out.

Duncan he would deal with today. The telepathic mess with Donovan had compromised his suitability for experiment 617, but if Von Ratched could even partially block the link, he could go ahead with the experiment without driving Donovan insane in the process.

DaVries was his backup option, but her mindset made her a less than ideal candidate. Duncan was stable and had more or less normal morals, which could definitely not be said of DaVries. The fact that she didn't regard their little arrangement as any kind of chore told him that, even without digging deeper into her mind. Donovan was too valuable as what she was, and in any event she'd be a certifiable nightmare if it succeeded with her.

No, it had to be Duncan. And perhaps an interview with him would shed some light on this morning's mysteries.

\----

Lorna was highly alarmed when Ratiri was kept inside, and he tried to be as calming as he could before Grieggs led him off. He hoped her almost pathological protectiveness wouldn't drive her to follow: he could tell by Grieggs' aura that he was probably in for something nasty, and he really didn't want her dragged into it.

His suspicions were confirmed when the nurse led him to F wing. Von Ratched met them there, and there was a look in his eyes Ratiri didn't like at all: speculative, assessing, but also mildly aggravated. If he'd seen anything of that dream in someone's mind…this could be bad. Very bad.

"This isn't going to hurt yet, Duncan," Von Ratched said, leading him into the bowels of the wing, and Ratiri wondered if that was his attempt at being encouraging. "Not much, at any rate. I need to ask you some questions before we begin."

_Of course you do_ , Ratiri thought, and then mentally kicked himself. Maybe he ought to take a leaf from Lorna's book and start thinking in Hindi.

"I would not, if I were you," Von Ratched said, shooing him into an exam room. "Donovan gets away with it because I have not yet forced her to do otherwise. I would not have the same patience with you."

Okay, maybe not such a brilliant idea. Ratiri sat on the exam table without being told, hoping that would earn him some brownie points. It was too warm in here for his comfort, and there was a faint chemical smell he couldn't identify. It tickled his nose, leaving a bitter, astringent taste at the back of his throat.

Von Ratched faced him, arms crossed, eyes boring into his like icy drill bits. "What did Donovan do to your mind?" he demanded.

Ratiri blinked, wondering where _that_ had come from. "I don't know what you mean," he said, quite honestly.

"There are blanks in your thoughts, Duncan -- places that are hidden from me. I want to know what she did. You can tell me, or I can drag her in here and force it out of her."

"No!" Ratiri winced at his own vehemence. He was a terrible liar, a worse actor, and had no idea how he was going to get around this without giving _something_ away. "She didn't do anything, I'm sure of it. Something must have, but it wasn't her." His palms were sweating now, and he wished he had anything like a decent poker face.

Von Ratched regarded him silently for over a minute. "Defensive of her, aren't you? That could complicate things. If it was not her, what was it?"

"I don't know." And that was very true. He had no idea who or what that lady was, or what she might have done to any of them.

Again, a long measure of silent scrutiny. His pulse sped up, but somehow he managed to remain perfectly still. He couldn't out-stare Von Ratched, but probably no one on Earth could do that.

"As you like," Von Ratched said, taking a blood-pressure cuff from the wall, but Ratiri knew this wasn't the end of it. The bastard would find everything out one way or another, but hopefully not from him.

The cuff went around his arm, and he wondered why Von Ratched bothered taking vitals himself. Anybody remotely conscious would have an elevated pulse and blood pressure, and for no concrete reason. Yes, the man looked rather intimidating, but not enough so to create the reaction he received from probably everyone. Ratiri could see his aura, but nobody else did, and everybody wound up uneasy around him. It was nothing visible, yet entirely tangible. He wondered how Lorna could be as belligerent to the bastard as she was.

Von Ratched noted the numbers, and looked at him. All right, those eyes were possibly the creepiest thing Ratiri had ever seen, but it still didn't explain the man's effect on people. "You are rather fond of your little telepathic friend, aren't you?" he asked. "How interesting. I thought I would be using you against her, not the other way around. I wouldn't get _too_ attached to her, Duncan. Depending on how this turns out, she might not want to be anywhere near you."

_He does this on purpose_ , Ratiri thought, but it brought him no comfort. The man was arrogant and creepy, but so far he'd never exaggerated any of his threats. "What are you planning?" he asked, his voice remarkably steady as Von Ratched handed him a thermometer.

"A very long time ago, one of my employers asked me to create him a werewolf," the doctor said, the last word twisted with distaste. "Not only would such a thing be impossible, it would be a ridiculous waste of effort to attempt.

"After that employer fell, however, I decided to see if I could transfer lupine senses to a human being. I've run through hundreds of animal subjects, but you are the first human who has looked promising enough to complete this experiment."

Ratiri stared at him, spitting out the thermometer. His voice, his stance -- everything pointed to him being completely sincere. _He's insane. Absolutely barking._

"I assure you I am not. Before I begin this, I must wall off your mind to a certain degree, or it will drive _Donovan_ insane. And neither of us want that, if for different reasons."

This was just too much. All Ratiri's noble intentions, his wish to remain stoic around this madman, utterly fled -- and so did he, leaping off the table and yanking the door open. Where he was to go didn't matter; _away_ was all that counted.

He hadn't gone five paces before he was halted dead in his tracks, caught in a telekinetic hold that wouldn’t even let him struggle. 

"You already have very good reflexes," Von Ratched observed, circling him and eying him critically. "And you are quite healthy. This will not, I think, kill you, although for a time you might wish it would. Regrettably, that can't be helped."

Ratiri might not be able to struggle, but he could still sweat, and he did. Terror unlike anything he'd ever felt surged through him, until he thought his heart might burst. He'd run enough clinical trials himself to know there was very little chance this would end well.

"Sleep, Duncan. I will see what maybe be done about your little telepathic connection, and then we will begin."

\----

The peace and contentment Lorna had found in her dream started fading not five minutes after Ratiri was gone.

It should have maintained itself just fine. She was outside, for God's sake, chill breeze stinging her cheeks, which were lightly sun-warmed every time it ebbed. It was a bright spring morning, the sky blue and mostly cloudless, the earth dry and sweet beneath her booted feet. Yet she marked her garden-patches on auto-pilot, lining them with a can of bright orange spray-paint. She even answered questions, but her mind was not on her work.

Ratiri was afraid. She could feel it, even without actively reading his thoughts. Of course he would be nervous if he was around Von Ratched, but this was far beyond mere unease. His fear gave way to a level of terror that seemed to slap her upside the head, so intense it physically hurt.

And then it…severed, far more completely than if he'd been merely unconscious. For one horrible moment she thought he was dead, but no -- a faint trace of their odd connection remained. Whatever Von Ratched was doing was so horrible he'd deliberately blocked that link.

She swore, and dropped her paint can. Ratiri just wasn't built to handle pain. From what little she'd seen, his life had been too comfortable, too normal to have let him know what true pain was until he came here. He hadn't protested when she'd latched onto his mind without permission, and he'd been terribly hurt once already because of her. She'd promised herself she'd repay him somehow, that she'd shield him from things he had no strength to deal with -- and from the feel of it, he was about to endure something beyond horrible.

Fuck that.

She bolted back inside, ignoring the orderlies who tried to stop her. It was a long way to F wing -- hopefully she'd be fast enough to get there before Von Ratched really started. Ratiri was _hers_ , goddammit, her responsibility. He needed protection, and she was damn well going to give it.

A few more foolish orderlies tried to grab her, and went flying like tenpins. Her lungs started burning far too early; it had been too soon since she'd been forced to quit smoking, and she was out of shape. The heavy clothing suited for the cold outdoors made her sweat almost immediately, and she shed the too-large jacket as she pelted through the hallways.

She'd only got two-thirds of the way before absolute agony tore through her head like a railroad spike to the brain. It was so intense it drove her to her knees, and pain shot through them, too. It had nothing on what was threatening to rip apart her mind, though, and when she staggered to her feet the lights blasted out almost in unison. She had to pause to throw up everything she'd eaten for breakfast, and it was only sheer, stubborn will that even kept her conscious.

And now she could feel Von Ratched in her head, tearing at her senses, but maybe he was too far away, or he was too busy to devote all his attention to her. Either way she somehow kept on, though the combination of her pain and his assault all but blinded her. Her stomach rolled again, and chilly sweat dampened her clothes as her head went dizzyingly light, but the inner heat of her total rage drove her forward. What he might do when she got there didn't matter -- she just had to _get_ there.

Her staggering feet eventually let her fetch up against F wing's door, and she leaned against it a moment, trying to reorient herself. The metal was cool and solid against her cheek; it at least was indisputably real.

It was also indisputably locked, but it wasn't enough to withstand her telekinesis. Throwing so much of it intentionally made her dizzier than ever, and she wove like a drunk through the corridors, eventually resting her hand against the wall for support. Christ, it was too far -- she didn't even know just where they were in this ungodly large place. She wasn't going to make it.

_Move your arse, Lorna_ , she ordered herself. _If you give up now, he wins._

But she fell to her knees again, dry-heaving, sparkles swimming before her eyes. As soon as she could move she started crawling, and eventually managed to regain her feet. Ratiri felt closer now, but of course so did Von Ratched, and she thought his mental attack might split her head apart.

_Throw it back at him_ , that tiny coherent part of her commanded, so she did.

At first she thought it had backfired, the pain was so intense, but after a few moments it ebbed to something almost bearable. She'd startled him, if nothing else, and she'd damn well better get there before he recovered enough to cripple her.

The faint trace of Ratiri's consciousness finally led her to a door, but she barely had the energy to claw at it. _Knock it down_ , that little voice whispered, but she couldn't. All this effort and she was fading fast -- even her rage wasn't enough to keep her going.

Bugger that. She hadn't made it this far to give in now. Summoning a reserve of energy she didn't know she had, she managed to knock the door right off its hinges.

She fell with it, and this time she couldn't stand. Once again she was reduced to crawling, the tile cold beneath her hands. It cooled the prickly heat of her erratic blood pressure, though her vision was more blurry than ever.

Footsteps approached, and when she sat up she found Von Ratched looming over her. "Well done, Donovan," he said, unbelievably caustic. "Thanks to your aggravating distraction, this very nearly killed Duncan."

"Not this," she managed, " _you_. What've you done to him?"

He yanked her upright by her hair, then dragged her after him with a bone-creaking grip on her arm. "Let's find out, shall we?"

When her abused vision finally focused, she found Ratiri lying deathly still on a surgical table, beneath a harsh overhead lamp. His arms had been restrained, and there was blood at his wrists where he'd struggled, already half-dried. He was as pale as his complexion would allow, his skin ashy-grey. Von Ratched pulled her closer, giving her a better view of his face, and he opened his eyes.

Lorna recoiled. There was nothing of _Ratiri_ in their honey-brown depths. They were wild, feral, and totally inhuman.

She rounded on Von Ratched again, ignoring his iron grip on her arm. "You son've a bitch, what did you--"

She got no further. With a growl Ratiri ripped one restraint entirely off the table, and then the other. The protesting screech of metal pierced her eardrums, but when he crawled from the table he didn't grab Von Ratched, he grabbed _her_ , yanking her away from the doctor so hard she felt something in her arm crack. She hurt so much already that she barely registered the pain, and fortunately he let go before the tug-of-war broke anything else.

"Fascinating," Von Ratched said, although she barely heard it. She was too busy wondering if Ratiri was going to tear her apart.

He didn't. Instead he hugged her as though he never meant to let go, and some wild, irrelevant part of her thought, _Well, this is awkward_. Awkward and painful, but he seemed to sense the latter, for his grasp loosened enough to allow her to breathe properly.

"Ratiri, allanah, for the love've Christ, will you knock it off?" she said, the words half croak, half gasp. Her use of his name cleared his eyes a little, and she ignored Von Ratched as she reached out and touched his mind.

It was the strangest thing she'd yet found, in her limited experience of her curse. Lorna picked up not one wavelength of thought, but two, as though some separate entity had been grafted onto his psyche. Just what in the name of hell had Von Ratched _done_? _Calm down, allanah_ , she sent him, trying to infuse the thought with what little peace she could muster. _It's over_. She had no idea if that was true or not, but she had to say _something._

It was all she had time to think, before her consciousness finally gave up.

\----

This really was fascinating. Von Ratched had figured Duncan would survive, but he hadn't anticipated how feral he would become. He really was little more than an animal right now, though the core of his being remained. The question was whether or not it would ever reassert itself.

The Donovan complication might work in his favor, though she was likely to find it vastly uncomfortable. The animal this test had created had certainly latched onto her, and he doubted she was equipped to deal with the magnitude of that. Especially since Ratiri-the-human wasn't likely to share that fixation.

One thing was certain -- he needed to be sedated so both their injuries could be tended. After so much exertion, Donovan might well sleep for the next three days. He'd leave Duncan with her, to see how the man reacted when -- if -- he came back to himself. He'd have to keep an eye on them, in case Duncan did decide to hurt or kill her, but he didn't think he needed to worry. This could make their other tests doubly intriguing.

Fortunately for Donovan, she could probably survive it even if he did. At first, Von Ratched had been baffled by her physical durability -- the woman used her body more or less as a meat shield, seemingly indifferent to the fact that her violence was only going to get her hurt in return. He himself was capable of shrugging off attacks that would have crippled many other people, but his telekinesis made him rather more resilient than a normal person. It hadn't taken him long to figure out that was the case with her as well. If Duncan decided to try to break her neck, at least he'd have a hard time doing so. 

\----

Outside, Katje was worrying. She and Geezer had gone a little away from the others, and were halfheartedly digging at the hard ground with trowels.

"I think the doctor may kill both," she said at last, brushing a curl of hair from her eyes. "Ratiri and Lorna. They do not manipulate, they push. And now Lorna go--" she waved a vague hand at the building. "I do not want to lose them. You three are almost only decent people in this place."

"Hansen's not so bad," Geezer said, trying to pry a rock loose. The ground beneath the first two inches of soil was too frozen to do much with. The chilly wind had blown his wild hair into an even bigger mess, reddening his nose and his deeply seamed cheeks. "And Von Ratched won't kill 'em. Sounds like they're too damn interesting to him."

He paused. "I gotta ask -- how could you stand doing what you do? And with him of all people?"

She shrugged, genuinely nonplussed. "Is business," she said. "Why should I mind? I get what I ask for, yes? You have very strange--" she waved a hand again, searching for the English "--way of believe."

"I think you mean morals," he said. "How can you let yourself be used like that?"

She snorted, setting down her trowel. "I use him, not other way around. Besides," she added, "he is good at what he does."

"…I didn't need to know that." Geezer shook his head, but Katje wasn't surprised he didn't understand. Nobody did.

"Besides," she said, "if I keep him entertained, he is less likely to do bad things to me."

"Until he gets bored," he pointed out.

"I am difficult to get bored with." She was proud of it, too. Nobody ever understood that she really did like her job, and she now had conditioner, expensive hand lotion -- little things that made this prison seem less like a prison.

"It's your life, but I don't wanna see you get hurt. And he will hurt you, eventually."

"Yes, eventually," she said, "but that is later. Why should I spend all my time worry over that? You have a saying in English: 'Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die'." With another shrug, she added, "And it keep him away from any who do not want that kind of attention. Which is, I think, everyone but me. The rest have morals."

That was all she would say on the subject. She'd made a few observations that she hoped were wrong. Given the brief amount of time she'd had to make them, odds were good they _were_ wrong, but she wouldn't rest easy until she knew for sure. Whatever else he might be, Katje was sure Von Ratched was not the kind to force anyone _that_ way, but she could think of many worse alternatives.

She shivered. "He has not seen you yet, no?" she said, changing the subject.

"Not yet," Geezer said, but there was a grimness to his words. "He'll get around to it, once he leaves those two poor bastards alone. He can't know what I really am, or he'd have done it already."

"Why?" she asked, making a somewhat lame effort with her trowel as an orderly walked by. "If you have no control, what good would it be to push?"

"Because I've had it longer than all a' you," he said quietly. "For all I know, I mighta been born with it. And I think the only other one here like that's _him_."

Oh, no. "I will not tell," she promised. "But…he might know your name, yes? Who you really are?"

"Doubt it. I've tried to find out myself, but there's no record of me anywhere. " He held up one of his burned, gnarled hands. "Even with the napalm, I still have fingerprints, but nobody's got 'em on file anywhere." 

Katje tried not to wince. The skin looked like melted candle wax, and made his handling of the trowel very awkward. "Does it hurt?"

"Sometimes," he conceded. "Doctors said it burned away a lotta the nerves, but there's still places it itches and aches every now and then."

"What is napalm?"

Now Geezer was the one who shivered. "Hell-weapon they used in 'Nam. It sticks to things, and it's damn near impossible to get off. I've forgotten so much, but I can't forget that. Still have a hard time with the smell of cooking meat."

Katje swore under her breath. She'd gladly keep Von Ratched, ah, _occupied_ if it would keep him away from Geezer, as well as Ratiri and Lorna. God knew she could be creative enough. "How about I take over digging a while?" she said. "You tell me good things you remember."


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which it really, really sucks to be Geezer.

Lorna woke to find Ratiri staring at her.

No, not Ratiri -- whatever thing Von Ratched had turned him into. The savagery had left his eyes, but they were still inhumanly feral. How could she even _begin_ to deal with this?

Sitting up was a good start. Her left arm had been neatly splinted, and she was pumped full of so many painkillers it didn't hurt at all. She was hungry, thirsty, and desperately needed to pee.

They were in yet another featureless holding cell, but thank God this one had an adjacent bathroom. She staggered when she tried to stand, and Ratiri jumped to his feet.

"Will you calm down, allanah," she said, as gently as she could. "I've really got to pee. I'll be right back."

The bathroom was tiny, and washing her hands was a bit difficult with the splint. When she emerged Ratiri was sitting on her cot, and his stare found her again. She tried not to be unnerved by it. Very carefully she sat next to him, and sighed. "All right, allanah, first things first: there's a thing called blinking. You ought to try it."

He did -- an encouraging sign, she hoped. Maybe he actually understood her. Gently she reached out and touched his mind, and was relieved to find a little more of _him_ had resurfaced. She could work with this, if Von Ratched gave her the time -- she was sure the bastard was watching, waiting to see if Ratiri would try to kill her. "You just lie down now -- I'm not going anywhere."

Bless him, he did, and she laid a reassuring hand on his forehead. All she could think to do was sing him a lullaby like a child, and push calming thoughts on him. She gave him some of her better memories of Ireland, the little town she'd gone to live in with her elder half-sister. For her they were bittersweet, recollections of a place she might never see again.

She must have fallen asleep like that, though she had no awareness of doing so. When she woke again she found herself being hugged like a rag doll, her head against his chest.

Well, wasn't _this_ awkward. She liked Ratiri well enough, but this was a bit…personal. Lorna wasn't much of a touchy-feelie kind of woman; she liked her personal space, and she definitely didn't have it now. There probably wasn't any way to extricate herself without waking him, so she poked him in the shoulder. "Ratiri."

He grunted, but didn't stir.

"Ratiri." Poke. " _Ratiri_. Allanah, I'd like to breathe already."

That roused him, and when he opened his eyes, he tensed. There was a lot more human there now, though the animal was by no means gone. She could almost feel the war going on inside his head.

Eventually, the humanity mostly won out, and with it came visible embarrassment -- apparently he found this as awkward as she did. "Sorry," he said, letting go of her and sitting up.

"'S all right," she assured him. "Just glad to have you capable've speech again. What in bloody hell did that bastard do to you?"

His brow furrowed, and she automatically pushed an errant chunk of hair back from it. "I don't know," he said, his voice hoarse. "He injected me with…something. All I remember is that it hurt."

" _That_ I figured," she said dryly, sitting up and hugging her knees with her good arm. "Felt it myself. D'you remember…anything before now?"

He scoured a hand over his face. "A little. I think. I'm not sure how much of it's real." When he looked back at her, there was fear in his expression. "I did that, didn't I?" he asked, gesturing to her arm.

Lorna snorted. "No, that was him. Arsehole wouldn't let go. Think he might've cracked it even before you grabbed me."

He let out a relieved sigh. "He's too strong," he said, letting his head fall back against the wall with a _thunk_. He still looked like hell, but at least he was less pale -- and she was probably no prize herself at the moment.

"It's the telekinesis, I think," she said. "I've been noticing it in myself. It…augments your strength, sort've thing."

She picked at her hair, almost relieved to find it a tangled mess. It had been braided when she was outside, but her inglorious flight through the Institute had almost totally undone it. Her knees had to be twin bruises; both were swollen, and it would probably be a while before she'd be walking normally again.

Ratiri leapt to his feet so suddenly she jumped, and started prowling the room like -- well, like a caged animal. "This is ridiculous," he said, the words almost a snarl. "We can't stay here, Lorna."

_Hush now_ , she sent him. _Von Arsehole's got to be listening. You're right, but I don't know what to do about it, unless you know how to fly a plane._

 _I don't_ , he admitted, still pacing, his hands now fisted in his hair. _And where could we go, that we wouldn’t be caught again? Cities obviously aren't safe._

She had no answer for that. If she knew more about survival, she'd suggest they try to make it for some of Canada's vast wilderness and live there, but as it was they'd probably freeze to death the first night. They needed somewhere remote, somewhere away from the Men in Grey, but with enough amenities to let them actually survive the winter, but right now she didn't know where such a place might be.

No, escape wasn't a viable option yet, but maybe… Thank God she could think in Irish. Maybe it would be possible to take over the Institute somehow. There _had_ to be some way of dealing with Von Ratched -- he was only one man, for Christ's sake. An extremely powerful and brutal man, but human nonetheless. Would he really be able to control them, if they all rose up at once?

_No, but he could probably kill us all._ Fortunately that too was in Irish, and it was unfortunately true. The incident in the cafeteria alone told her he had much, much better control of his telekinesis than she did, and she was sure she'd only scratched the surface of his telepathic abilities. Damn.

Ratiri's pacing was beginning to drive her mad. "Will you not sit down, allanah? This room's too small for this."

Sit he did, though he'd run his hands through his hair so much it was wilder than his eyes. "What does that mean, 'allanah'?" he asked, and she mentally kicked herself.

"It's Irish," she said. "It basically means 'little dear one', but we throw it around like anything back home." That last wasn't true, but she'd rather he not know that. 

"Little?" he asked, and when he smiled he definitely looked like himself. "How can you call--"

Lorna held up a warning finger, cutting him off. "Don't start that," she ordered. "I've had enough jabs about my height to last three lifetimes. Bad enough my sister used to call me fun-sized, like those miniature candy bars."

He was trying not to laugh. He really was, but she didn't grudge him when he failed. Laugher, after all, was uniquely human. It drove a little more of the animal from his eyes. "I'm sorry, but that's adorable."

"Who're you calling adorable?" she asked, with a mock glare.

"Not you, if doing so will make you hit me," he said, holding up a placating hand. "My father wasn't a tall man, and he used to say short people had just as much potential violence as tall ones -- it's just concentrated."

Now she laughed. "Well, he was Scottish. There's a thing called a Glasgow Smile for a reason." She drew her fingers across her cheeks, miming knife-wounds.

He winced. "I saw one, once, on a patient who came into the E.R. Of course everyone gave me grief about it, being the only Scot there."

Lorna wasn't about to mention she'd _given_ someone half of one. "Would you go back to London, if you could?"

It was a little while before he answered. "No. I'd go back home, to Scotland. I moved to London for work, but it was never really home. What about you?"

She picked at her hair some more. "I want to travel again. I was a roadie for Judas Priest when I was younger, and I loved it. Though maybe I'm getting too old."

"Why did you stop?"

Now she was the quiet one. "I had a boyfriend," she said at last. "He and I got engaged, and when I got knocked up we headed home to Ireland to set the wedding up early. Van wrecked, he died, I miscarried. Went to live with my sister after that."

It was a vast over-simplification, but it wasn't something she liked talking about, and thankfully Ratiri didn't press. "I lost my wife," he said. "Ovarian cancer. She was only twenty-five." 

There was a weight of lingering grief in his voice that she recognized all too well. "You never really get over it," she said, half to herself. "Some days you can hardly feel it, but others it's like to murder you."

"But at the same time, you don't want to let it go," he said. "If you did, you'd lose something infinitely precious."

"You know, I think you're the first person I've met who's articulated it that well. And letting go…it'd feel like a betrayal."

He sighed. "That it would. I have to admit, I considered joining her once or twice."

"Me too. Got drunk instead." She made a face. "I'd about kill for one now. Pint've Arthurs, a pack've cigarettes, and maybe a good bowl've Panamanian Red to top it off. I'd see if I could get Katje to barter for some, but I'm not sure she wouldn't make me try to work it off, if you get my meaning."

That made him really laugh, long and hard. "You might be right. I think she likes you."

"Get away with you," Lorna snorted. "Katje likes damn near everyone, I think. I wonder what her damage is."

"I know what mine is," Ratiri said. "Being stuck in here. I'm betting I'm stuck until Von Ratched decides I'm not dangerous."

"If you are, I am, too. Stick with me, Ratiri Duncan. I'll look after you. I've got to look after _someone_."

He looked at her curiously. "It's not that I don't appreciate it, but do you really think I need looking after?"

She looked away, unable to meet his eyes. There wasn't really any way to explain this that didn't sound insulting. "In a way," she said. "It's not that I don't think you could handle it -- you just shouldn't have to. You or Katje or anyone here. It's just…it seems to me like your life was pretty normal, before this. You don't have the experience to be equipped to deal with this kind've shite." Never, ever would she admit she thought people with stable lives naïve, but she did. And because he was so stable, so _normal_ , she didn't want him to have to deal with it now. In that sense, she didn't know him well enough to tell if he'd be strong enough or not.

"What happened to you, Lorna?" he asked quietly. "What gave you that attitude?"

She shrugged. "Your standard nasty childhood. Dead mother, arsehole father. Ran away when I was fourteen, and was a lot happier after that." _Don't you dare pity me_ was the unspoken end of that statement -- half supplication, half threat. 

Fortunately, he didn't say he was sorry. She hated it when people did that. "For what it's worth, thank you," he said instead. "It's nice to know someone here cares what happens to me. But I warn you, that goes both ways." There was a finality to his tone that made her heart sink a little. She appreciated the sentiment, too, but she really didn't want him getting hurt on her account. A thought Von Ratched would surely use against her. Getting too attached to people was dangerous, especially in a place like this.

"So what now?" she asked, drumming her heels against the leg of her cot. "Do we sit here until we die've boredom?" 

"Show me Ireland," he said. "Whatever of it you want to. I'll show you Scotland, too -- we can compare notes."

That made her smile. "Deal," she said. "Come here -- this'll be easier if I can touch you."

He did, and they spent the next few hours sharing their homesickness.

\----

Von Ratched was only keeping half an eye on them. The rest of his attention was devoted to being quietly infuriated at the person on the other end of his telephone. He was not a man who yelled or even raised is voice, but at this point he was legitimately plotting murder.

"No," he said, leaning back in his desk chair, "I will not go to you. Do you have any idea what the inmates would do if I left? Fear of me is a great part of what controls them. Were I to leave, I do not doubt they would try to escape and take their chances in the wilderness. I have too many experiments going to allow them to wander off and freeze to death, to say nothing of the damage they would inflict on the Institute itself. Damage you would have to pay for."

The man he was speaking to was not, unfortunately, Andrew Crupps. It was no one he had ever met, or he would be receiving much more deference. "We want your patients liquidated, Doctor, and you back here. Not all of us agreed to your Institute in the first place. We've already wasted millions on it, and we're wasting more every day."

The stupidity of some people truly staggered Von Ratched at times. "No," he said flatly. "Cut my funding and I will pay for it myself. You will not interfere with my work, you will not touch my patients, and you will never trouble me again." It wasn't a request or even a command: it was a statement, written in the bedrock of the Earth, of what would and would not be.

And it finally seemed to unnerve the other man. "You couldn't possibly afford that," he said, much of the bluster gone from his voice.

"Clearly you know nothing of me. I suggest you instruct your superiors to fully read my file before you waste my time again."

He hung up without waiting for a response, and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was true -- he could afford to run this place for years if necessary, but he would rather not have to. How easily sensible people could turn into idiots never ceased to amaze him. Now he was irritated beyond words, and decided he ought to send for DaVries. Very rarely had he run across anyone like her -- she was in her profession for more than just the money, and she didn't take it at all seriously. He would get bored of her, in time -- he always did -- but for now she was quite relaxing.

Send for her he did, and ignored the world for the rest of the afternoon. She was well paid for her time, in the things she demanded: a hot-oil treatment kit for her hair, expensive make-up, Belgian chocolate, even a carton of cigarettes. As a doctor he disapproved of that last one, but in the end she wasn't likely to live long enough to develop lung cancer.

\----

That night the inmates dreamed again of the Garden, but Geezer was not among them. He was too busy having a prophetic seizure.

And they were seizures, or something very like one. He recalled a doctor trying to diagnose him with epilepsy at some point in the Eighties, but this definitely wasn't epilepsy.

His roommate, the pyro kid Wrigley, was so heavily sedated he didn't even stir at Geezer's thrashing. Thank God -- nobody needed to witness this.

_The visions always started out murky grey, with a howl like a hurricane. It was cold and desolate, this prodrome state, a world inhabited by one. It would have been lonely, if it wasn't so goddamn painful it felt like someone had scoured his bones with broken glass._

_As always, the images he saw were brief and incoherent -- helpless people trying to flee bombs no one could outrun; unburied bodies lying in stinking heaps._

_But then there was a mountain, a beautiful place forested with massive, ancient Douglas firs. People lived here, or would; he saw construction, houses among the trees, and this at least felt more than happy. Indeed it felt remarkably like the peace in the Garden, so very far removed from the perpetual fear of the Institute._

_But then he saw the Institute itself going up in flames, and he didn't know why. Was it lit by some kind savior, or was it a last-ditch sacrifice? The image vanished before he could search it further._

_Here was a laughing Katje, dressed in a red halter top and a pair of pants that looked like they'd been spray-painted on, which must have delighted her hedonistic soul. Her hair was several inches longer -- this had to be far in the future._

_Ratiri, his eyes feral and dangerous as an enraged wolf, with a Lorna beside him who looked almost worse. Hers was a human fury, and there was frigid murder in her green eyes._

_But not himself. Never himself. His own future was barred from him; he could only infer, whenever he was able. In this case he could extrapolate nothing of his own fate. Whether he lived or died here remained to be seen._

As soon as he woke, he threw up. He'd be shaking and miserable for hours yet -- it was like a hangover from hell. Normally he'd have a drink and a smoke to wind down, but he'd get neither here. So he lay on the frigid tile, unable to even sit up, and listened to Wrigley breathe. The moon was only a sliver, so the room was pitch-dark, and right now it was worse than anything his fractured memory could conjure. Right now, he hoped he'd die here -- and hoped he did it soon. Horrible as this was, he was sure Von Ratched could make it infinitely worse. 

\----

Once again, the mood in the cafeteria was unaccountably pleased. Once again, Von Ratched was not.

By now he was certain Donovan and Duncan could safely be left to their own devices. The rest of the inmates, it seemed, could not. He continued to fail divining anything from their thoughts, and he was considering torturing it out of someone when a nurse came running.

"Something's wrong with Geezer," he said. "He's semiconscious but unresponsive. I think he had some kind of seizure in the night."

Well, this day was suddenly looking up. Von Ratched followed the man to the cell wing, curiosity overriding his aggravation. What with one thing and another, he'd neglected his patient without an identity for too long.

And he really had no identity. His fingerprints and dental records had no match in any database the staff had searched -- the man was a ghost. Someone had excised every single piece of information on his existence, and Von Ratched greatly desired to know who, and why. In this age of computerized information, that was no small feat, and the man himself certainly couldn't have done it.

Geezer did indeed look terrible, lying sprawled on his bunk. His skin was grey, and he smelled of sweat and fear -- and something else, something Von Ratched couldn't identify. The nurse was wrong about one thing, though: however unaware the man appeared, he knew exactly what was going on. His face was blank, but his mind was racing.

"Well, Mister Geezer, it would seem you had something of a rough night." Those faded blue eyes watched warily as Von Ratched sat on the empty bunk. "I am going to take you to an examination room, to see if we might discover why."

A rictus of terror overtook the deliberately vapid expression, but the man obviously had no energy to fight. He only managed feeble protest when two orderlies loaded him onto a gurney, and really did lapse into semi consciousness as they wheeled him into an exam room.

Von Ratched did a little searching of his mind while waiting for him to stir. He really _didn't_ know his own name, and his memory was patchy in a very unusual way. He wasn't repressing anything -- it was _gone_. Normal amnesiacs usually had things stored away in their subconscious, even if they were so deep only he could read them, but Geezer -- it was as though some other telepath had gone in and forcibly excised much of his memory.

But it wasn't that. Geezer, he discovered, knew what he was, even if he didn't understand it. And while it made him an intriguing subject, it once again made Von Ratched unhappy.

He didn't like precogs. He'd only dealt with one once, a Russian POW who had seen far too much of the future. He hadn't been able to read any of that divination in the man's mind, either; the ordinary thoughts were fair game, but anything pertaining to the future was somehow barred. Which he suspected would prove to be the case this time.

It was a good twenty minutes before the man so much as twitched. His vitals were interesting -- pulse and respiration were just this side of dead, and his blood pressure rose and fell erratically. His ability took a toll on him unlike anything Von Ratched had ever seen.

"I know you are awake," he finally said. "Look at me, Mister Geezer."

The man did, and let out a mumbled litany of curses that outdid even Donovan. The harsh lighting made him look jaundiced, his eyes so bloodshot very little white remained. "Wondered when you'd get around to me," he croaked. "Can't do nothing for you, Doctor. Don't have a damn bit of control over this, and I never have."

Von Ratched was sure he really believed that, too; the young Russian had. "You do not, but I might," he said, his hands folded as he regarded the wreck of a man on the exam table. "I cannot attempt to force a vision on you so soon, but you and I will work on that later. For now I would like to know what you saw."

Geezer shifted, the paper on the table crinkling and rustling. "Wouldn't do you any good," he said. "It's just bits without context. Mostly doesn't make sense until after the fact."

He was hedging, and badly. Von Ratched quirked an eyebrow. "Nevertheless, you will tell me what you saw, or I will force it from you. Believe me, you do not want the latter."

"You can't read it in my head?"

"No," he said, disgust lacing the admission. "I cannot. Because of that, I will be forced to resort to less elegant methods -- unless you cooperate."

Geezer was sweating again, and Von Ratched stopped breathing through his nose. The smell of blood he barely noticed anymore, but unwashed human he could definitely do without.

"This place burns down," Geezer said, after a pause. "Dunno how or why or when. Not winter -- there's no snow -- but that don't mean it'll happen soon. Could be next spring, could be ten years from now." 

"What else?" Von Ratched asked softly, and Geezer shuddered.

"War," he whispered. "Bombs. Death. Dunno where or when." He fell silent, his face a shade paler, but they weren't done here yet.

"There is more. I know there is."

Geezer shivered again, curling on his side. "Not much, and it was too damn brief to make any sense. Buncha pissed-off people and a mountain."

There it was again -- the hedging. "What people? You know who they are." It was more statement than question; the man wouldn't be so evasive if he didn't know. "Tell me, Geezer, or this is really going to hurt."

Of course the bastard said nothing, but Von Ratched wasn't surprised. Someone who could survive such burns as this man had would not be easily broken. No doubt he was ready for a beating, but that wasn't how Von Ratched operated -- the only person he'd had to get physical with in years was Donovan, but her ability and her pigheadedness were all that made that necessary. Physical violence was crass, messy; adjectives that described her, come to think of it.

No, he wasn't going to hit Geezer, or play with any of his considerable collection of surgical implements. Instead he stood with a mild sigh, stripping off his gloves. "Doubtless you believe you are retaining some shred of honor by your silence," he said, walking to the table, "but you are not. You are only ensuring yourself a very, very bad day."

He had to give the man a little credit. There was fear in his eyes, yes, but also a great deal of defiance. They would have to see how many memories of the Viet Cong could be brought to the fore.

_Unfortunately, Geezer's powers of recall weren't impressive even within the things he did remember. Vietnam was there, yes, but it was murky, sight without sound or smell. Humid, but even that was vague. The jungle was little more than a green blob, the trees amorphous blurs rather than anything defined. How disappointing --_

 _Wait. Here was a smell. Napalm, Von Ratched realized, though the only context he had for it was within Geezer's mind. It was joined by charred flesh -- now_ here _was something clear, something he could work with. The ruination of this half-broken man's hands ought to be interesting._

_The memory was very sharp. The sweltering humidity of a Vietnam summer was so vivid he could feel Geezer sweating, taste the mingling of metallic fear, bitter gasoline fumes, and harsh cordite._

_Planes were coming, a distant shrieking in the air -- North planes, not theirs. The entire squadron was taking what cover they could find; they didn't have anything like anti-aircraft arms. All they could do was hide and pray, and Geezer wasn't much good at either. He'd been a tall man, before age and hard living stooped him, tall and strong. Very young, though, in this memory -- just barely seventeen. A pity he didn't know what year this was._

_And here they came, the bombs, the jungle startlingly nearby going up in flames. There was just enough breeze to bear the choking, blinding smoke to them, herald of what might be a horrible death. Closer and closer still, and it was all Geezer could do to stay in one place -- the urge to flee was almost overwhelming, but if he ran and they spotted him, he was done for._

_But he_ did _run when a missile came streaking toward him, grabbing a friend whose name he no longer recalled. They tried to crouch as they went, and tripped into too many puddles to count._

 _And then there was fire ahead, the trees alight from root to crown, so hot it singed the hair on his head. Von Ratched pulled a little away, observing rather than inhabiting -- the point, after all, was to hurt Geezer, not himself. Another missile trailing smoke and flame, and then his friend was burning, he was burning --_

Von Ratched broke away there, but Geezer was trapped, screaming like a madman. His hands automatically curled in against his chest, his eyes squeezed shut and his face so red he looked in danger of a coronary.

After about a minute of this Von Ratched allowed him out of the memory. His face drained to grey again, and he shook like a drunk in detox. "Shall we do that again, or will you tell me? I can make it worse, Geezer. I can make it so much worse."

"Fuck you."

To his surprise, it took two more muggings in Memory Lane for Geezer to finally crack. "It's Lorna and Ratiri," he whispered, his voice all but gone. "I don't know why, but it's something you did. Will do. You hurt her somehow, and they're both out to kill you. Think they might be…" He trailed off, the words ending in a sigh. "Don't push 'em. Not her. Ends bad."

Given how often he'd hurt both of them, Von Ratched didn't know what might be significant enough about it to warrant a space in Geezer's precognition.

"Hurt him too much…she'll kill you. Hurt her…she'll still kill you."

"I have no intention of _harming_ either," he said, with a tinge of asperity. Perhaps he ought to separate them for a time. He wanted them dependant on one another -- not willing to kill for each other. Then again, Donovan had been there already, and that…irked him. She should be afraid for Ratiri, not homicidal for the sake of his safety.

He took a dose of Thorazine from the medicine cabinet. "Thank you, Geezer. You have given me much to think about."

The man probably welcomed the drug at this point, and Von Ratched left him to the care of a nurse and two orderlies. Time to check on Donovan and Duncan, and see what had to be done about them.

To his irritation, when he went to the viewing room he found the screens dark. Either they'd sabotaged the camera, or Donovan had blown it out by accident. Damn. He really didn't have the patience to deal with one of her tantrums right now.

When he unlocked the door to their cell, however, he found them both asleep. They'd scooted the cots close enough that she could keep a hand on Ratiri's chest, presumably to calm him if he woke. It was an intelligent strategy, but for some reason, Von Ratched didn't like it. He was beginning to regret fostering their codependence, which made no sense -- as a theory it was very sound. Seeing it in practice, however, bothered him. He'd wanted to be able to use each as a threat against each other, but there was a type of contentment to them now that sat ill with him.

Perhaps Duncan sensed him, for he stirred uneasily in his sleep. It roused Donovan just enough for her to shush him, her hand traveling briefly to his hair.

No, Von Ratched didn't like this at all.


	9. Chapter Nine

Lacking natural light, Ratiri didn't know just how many days they'd been in here before Von Ratched let them out.

Lorna had slept a great deal, and he stood guard over her very like a dog. They had come into an uneasy coexistence, this animal and he, though he doubted that would hold in any other setting. If he was ever given a chance to try.

But eventually Von Ratched came for them, and finally said they were to be set loose. "You will go to your own rooms to bathe and eat," he said, "and then I will send you to your own space in the exercise yard. Duncan, should you prove adaptable, I will consider easing you back into the general population."

Lorna, who had been asleep, went from muzzy to scowling in ten seconds flat. Amazingly, she made no actual comment, not a gripe or a jab, and Ratiri wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. "I'll behave," he said, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. At this point he'd have settled for just the shower; he felt disgusting, and he knew he didn't smell very good.

Von Ratched looked from Lorna to him and back again, and something in his aura…shifted. It was so slight it was almost imperceptible, but any change in that flat black was disturbing. _Please tell me he's getting bored with us,_ Ratiri thought.

_I'm not sure we're that lucky_ , she returned, and squeezed his hand.

"Off you go," Von Ratched said. "Donovan, I wood like to speak to you later, and I need to inspect your arm."

Now she made a face. "Can't Hansen do it?"

"He's not the one who broke it," he retorted, dry, and Ratiri was startled that he'd take ownership of that accident.

"That's kind've the point," Lorna snapped. "You broke it -- why should I let you near it again?"

"Because I said so. Out. Both of you."

They went, and as soon as they were out of earshot, Lorna growled. "'Because I said so'," she mimicked, sounding more like a cranky parent than Von Ratched, her American accent terrible. "Twat. I wonder if he knows how annoying he really is."

Privately, Ratiri thought she might be the only one not too terrified of Von Ratched to find him annoying. Which was odd, because she was afraid of him -- it just didn't stop her being irritated by him. "I don't think he'd care if he did know. I'll see you after breakfast, all right?"

"Right. Sure God I'll be glad to get outside again, if even if my ears do freeze off."

The shower, when he reached his room, was heavenly. It more than anything made him feel human again -- though the bacon, eggs, and toast he was delivered helped, too. Clean, fed, with fresh clothes and combed hair, he felt mostly like himself again.

Unsurprisingly, he had plenty of time to kick his heels before Lorna was brought to meet him again. He couldn't even imagine trying to wash all that hair, let alone brush it. And if it was wet when they went outside, it might freeze stiff. 

The sun was slanting to noon before she showed up again, but it had looked like midmorning when they were released. She grinned when she approached, already dressed in cold-weather gear far too big for her, black pants and an anorak, her hair tucked up under a woolly hat. It made her look about twelve years old.

"Shall we?" she said.

A blank-faced orderly led them to a section of prison yard that was indeed empty. At first the cold almost took Ratiri's breath away, making his lungs burn, but he adapted soon enough. The air was so _clean_ out here, pure as it had been on the moors in his childhood. True, the ground was flat and featureless all the way to the horizon, but even more tiny wildflowers were creeping into life. The low brush smelled sweet, and the sky was vast blue without a cloud.

He looked at Lorna, who had tilted her head back, shut her eyes, and started basking in it. The thin sunlight provided a little warmth to exposed skin, and she smiled faintly. "Nice to be out here when I'm not worried Von Arsehole's going to vivisect you," she said, opening her eyes and grinning at him. Out here they were more startlingly green than ever, but he was beginning to find them less unsettling. "I wonder what we're meant to _do_ out here, though. They've not given us any gardening tools."

True. They hadn't been issued anything, but he suspected Von Ratched was reluctant to give him anything that might be useful as a weapon. Which was, he thought grudgingly, possibly wise. "Tell me about these plants, if you know anything of them." He wasn't likely to remember any of it, but her strange voice was so lovely he just wanted to hear her talk. She was an odd little figure in her bulky winter gear, and moved awkwardly in it, but she sounded like a little Irish angel. Even her undeniably heavy accent didn't detract from it.

Ratiri followed her dutifully, relishing the feel of fresh air on his face. If he shut his eyes he could almost pretend this was an especially cold day in Scotland, and that soothed his strange inner beast. Between that and the sound of Lorna's voice, he was closer to relaxed than he'd been since he came here.

And the way everything smelled -- it was so amazing that at times it bordered on overwhelming. He'd never had a particularly acute sense of smell, but he definitely did now. Locked in that little room, he'd just assumed things were especially stinky, but out here it was downright distracting.

"What is it?" Lorna asked. "You're miles away."

"Please don't find this creepy," he said. "I'm testing something." He leaned down and sniffed at her absurd hat, and found the scent of her hair incredibly clear. It wasn't just the shampoo, it was her, a mingling of fir and lavender and summer. Would all people have such distinctive scents?

When he stood back, he found her eying him skeptically. "Sorry, allanah, that was a little creepy. What're you doing?"

"My senses have…changed," he said. Bizarre and somewhat unnerving though it was, his inner doctor was intrigued. "Everything smells so much more strongly now."

She arched a dubious eyebrow. "Oi, I just had a shower. Don't you go telling me I stink."

Her indignant expression made him laugh. "You don't," he said. "At the risk of sounding creepier than ever, you smell good."

Fortunately, she smiled rather than recoiled. "Possibly the oddest compliment I've ever received. Would you show me?"

"Show you how?"

"Let me see if I can…piggyback onto your senses."

Now he was the dubious one, but he wanted to share it -- wanted her to know what he meant. He had to use his teeth to strip off one of the heavy gloves, but when he managed it he took her tiny hand in his.

Feeling her in his mind was still incredibly strange, but after a moment she must have found what she was looking for. "…Oh," she breathed, and immediately turned and sniffed him.

"Now who's creepy?" he laughed.

"I take it back," she said, and tugged on his hand, dragging him down when she knelt to smell the flowers. "This is…."

"Weird?" he offered. "Amazing?"

"Both. At least this thing you had foisted on you has an upside."

Ratiri had to agree -- at least for now. Within the Institute, it was more likely to be a liability than a blessing. At least if he had other people around, he could offset the chemical odors. While in their cell, he'd chalked it up to F wing itself, but out here the difference was marked, and he was sure it would remain so once he was inside again. That might be…unpleasant.

But he'd enjoy this while he could. If he had any amount of luck at all, Von Ratched would let the pair of them out here again soon. It would be a much better way to test his senses than whatever horrible thing the doctor cooked up.

\----

Von Ratched spent the afternoon with Phil, one of the lethargic human hovercraft -- he'd neglected most of his inmates to a degree that was inexcusable. Geezer would be some days in recovering, Donovan and Duncan appeared to be functioning decently, and he had a lot of other people to study. Given the mood he'd woken up in, he finished the day in remarkably good spirits.

Of course, that couldn't be allowed to last. When he'd finished his dinner, he received yet another phone call from yet another idiot.

"We're pulling our military presence, Doctor, and I’m coming up there to relieve you of your post. Your benefactors won't protect you anymore."

For one dangerous moment, Von Ratched literally saw red. "Take your military," he said. "But I warn you, if you come here, it will be the last thing you ever do."

He hung up, disgusted. Doubtless the fool would bring his own military retinue, but clearly they had no idea what they were up against. He wasn't exaggerating when he said he'd toppled one government already, and he was seriously tempted to do it again. Nothing that annoyed him lived long enough to properly repent it.

He rose from his armchair, and crossed the dim apartment to his bedroom. This called for something stronger than a drink, and it had been too long since he'd indulged in his favorite vice. A small, highly polished wooden case resided in the right-hand drawer of his desk, containing a syringe and a vial of morphine. He'd become addicted to the stuff as a very young man, because at times it was the only thing that let him sleep, and by now his body had adapted to doses that would be lethal to anyone else.

The rush of the drug soothed him almost immediately. Von Ratched was not a man who ever gave into his temper; he didn't shout, didn't threaten, and didn't even hit anyone unless he absolutely had to. He had, however, killed more than one person for irritating him -- something he saw as an egregious lapse of self-control. He was fully aware that he was a monster, and had no qualms whatsoever about wearing the title, but he was a very controlled monster. Violence and murder were the province of lesser people; he considered his own killings executions. It was, he thought, Darwinism in its most pure form.

He'd had backup plans for this eventuality long before the construction of the Institute. Thanks to a combination of his telepathy and sensible investments, he was a very, very rich man, with money banked in a dozen countries in over a hundred different names. Combined with all he'd inherited from his dearly departed mother, he could run this place for a decade on the interest alone. And that would include the mercenaries he was going to have to hire, when the military pulled out. Assuming he let them live long enough to do it.

A very few in the American government knew what he really was, but none of them knew what he was capable of. From the sound of it, he was going to have to teach them the hard way. He knew the fact that he looked forward to it said nothing good about him, but he didn't care.

\----

For the entirety of the next week, nobody disappeared for any 'experiments'. And Lorna, despite her telepathy, had no idea why.

Admittedly, she wasn't very good at using it on anyone but Ratiri, but she thought it odd that she couldn't find anything in any mind. It seemed most of the staff were as much in the dark as she was.

On the sixth day, though, she caught a random thought from Grieggs, who passed through the cafeteria in a tearing hurry. Lorna froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. Holy shit. Holy _shit_ , this could be -- could be --

Perfect.

Katje gave her a puzzled glance. It had only been two days since Lorna and Ratiri had been allowed back into the cafeteria, under close supervision of two beefy orderlies, and she had to be wondering why. "What?"

"Nothing," Lorna said aloud. "Think someone just walked over my grave." The thought she sent Katje and Ratiri, however, was very different. _There's people coming. Military, I think. They want to shut this place down -- Christ, this might be our chance to escape._

Katje all but choked on her salad. _They are not coming to save us, are they?_

 _Doubt it. They'll probably kill us all if they catch us, but I can use this. Oh God, can I ever._ If Von Ratched was as distracted as she expected him to be, they could -- what was the Americanism? Get the hell out of Dodge? They'd need food, heavy clothing, but she knew where the latter was kept now. _I've got to tell Geezer_. And hope to high heaven Von Ratched didn't call for any of them before then, or the whole plan, primitive though it was, would fall apart at the seams.

_Lorna, we don't know where we_ are, Ratiri said. _We'd freeze or starve or both._

 _Beats getting shot here, doesn't it?_ she retorted. _And if we have enough supplies, we might have a chance._ Feverish excitement had taken her over like a drug, making her almost giddy, and it was all she could do not to show it.

_You're insane,_ Ratiri said.

_If you've a better idea, I'd love to hear it. This might be the only chance we'll ever get, and be honest -- would you really rather face certain death here, instead of potential death out there?_

 _No_ , he admitted, after a moment.

_We could make a go've it. We really could. Katje, could you transfigure things into food?_

 _I…I don't know_ , she said, startled.

_Try, as soon as you've got a chance. If you can, we won't need supplies._

_You realize he'll just drug us all when he gets wind they're coming, don't you?_

Lorna scowled at Ratiri. _Not helping. If he does, he does, but I'm planning anyway. If this invasion force or whatever is smart, they won't let him know when they're arriving. She paused, considering. Katje, you know a lot've people here. Pass it on to anyone you trust. Maybe a riot'll actually work this time._

She hoped. Oh, she hoped. If they could get away, she really didn't care of she froze to death. It was infinitely preferable to any more of Von Ratched's 'tests'. And maybe, just maybe, they could find haven somewhere.

But even that possibility wasn't important right now. Escape was what mattered; the rest could come later.

\----

As it turned out, opportunity found them the very next day.

Ratiri heard it first -- the whap-whap of helicopters in the distance. It was something he'd heard before, but never this many. He had no idea what a group of helicopters was called -- a flock, maybe? -- but the terminology hardly mattered.

What convinced him this was truly out of the ordinary were the orderlies, who dispersed themselves around the Activities Hall and tried to forcibly remove the inmates. Some went, but others -- those Katje had warned -- refused to budge. Thank God she had so many friends, people who trusted her. Too many had refused, giving the orderlies more than they could deal with. Their auras told him they were worried as well as angry; yes, if there was to be any chance at all, this was it.

"Wait," he told Lorna. She was literally quivering next to him on the couch, anxious to let loose and see what she could destroy. "Get in their heads, if you can. Confuse them. Slow them down, if you're able."

Her expression was easily the most disturbing he'd yet seen on her. There was an intensity in her eyes to rival Von Ratched, a stubborn set to her jaw that made him glad he wasn't on the other end of her telepathy.

It must have been working, because orderlies all over the room stumbled, blinking in the morning sunshine that poured through the windows. As one the other inmates tensed, but Ratiri sat very still, listening as hard as he could.

The helicopters were landing, he thought, one by one, and lines of strain etched themselves onto Lorna's face -- she was listening too, in her way.

"Military," she said. "Oh God, lots've--" She broke off, pressing the heel of her left hand to her forehead. "Allanah, I was right. They really have come to kill us all -- inmates, staff, maybe even Von Ratched. If we're to do this, we'd better do it now."

The tension left her face, and her eyes lit with a savagery that bordered on unholy. He wondered, far too late, how much control she really had over her telekinesis. Enough, it seemed, to shatter the windows, blasting them out so thoroughly that crumbs of safety glass glittered in the sun. 

A few of the orderlies recovered enough to swear, but Wrigley added to their problems before they could do anything else. He didn't seem to have any control at all, for he set half the damn room ablaze, burning so hot Ratiri thought he felt his hair singe. He grabbed Lorna's hand and ran for it, dragging her after him, with Katje and Geezer not far behind.

The sprinklers kicked on almost immediately, but some water-manipulator blew out the lines with a tearing shriek of metal. It drenched those who hadn't got out fast enough -- not a good thing, in this cold -- but running would keep them warm enough, for now.

Out they went, all of them, and in the background someone started shooting. Lorna turned, stumbling, and glared at the ruined, flaming hall with a heat that could have melted steel.

"What are you -- " Ratiri started, but the question died in his throat when the roof caved in. It was only over the hall, but the crumbling roar of pulverized concrete nearly deafened him. It sent puffs of dust high into the air, carried by the faint, chilly breeze -- and then the walls buckled, rebar groaning as it bent and then snapped.

It halted abruptly, as Lorna doubled over and threw up. Her face had gone ashy, and for a moment he thought she'd pass out. "Too much," she croaked. "Fuck."

He picked her up without a second thought. She was so small she didn't make much of a burden, and sheer adrenaline kept him from noticing at all. His breath was ragged, he had a stitch in his side that ebbed and flared with every step he took, but he felt like he could run forever.

Behind them, the tundra bloomed into another ball of fire, flames skyscraper-high licking at the flawless blue overhead. The heat of it hit his back like a solid force, and he thought, _At least everyone will dry off soon_. What he wouldn't let himself think about was how they were to control Wrigley later. That could wait until they were anything like truly safe. For now they ran, fleeing the closest thing to hell he hoped he would ever find.

\----

Von Ratched met his intruders with an expression of pure stone. He had a little show to put on, before he killed them all.

The general he'd spoken to looked like what he'd expected. Aging, grey-haired, but in very good shape, his uniform impeccable. While not so tall as Von Ratched, he was tall enough -- six-one, maybe six-two. He had the look of a man accustomed to having his every order instantly obeyed; no wonder he'd been so very obnoxious over the phone.

Beside him was another man, a politician of some kind, and he couldn't be more of a contrast to his companion. A once-fit man going to fat in a way his tailored grey suit couldn't hide, with an expression of grim self-righteousness that told Von Ratched everything he needed to know. Here was one who really did consider him the devil.

"I am disappointed in you," he said, before either of them could speak. "He is an idiot, but General Andrews, surely you read my file." Surely you knew this was a suicide mission.

The politician paled. He was shivering in the wind, trying not to show it and failing. "He didn't tell you his name."

Von Ratched sighed, dismissing the moron. "He knows he did not need to. Come now, General -- who did you anger enough to be sent here? Who told you so little of me?"

When the man spoke, his tone was clipped, hard -- Maine, if Von Ratched wasn't mistaken. "You have no file, Doctor," he said. "In fact, you have no documentation whatsoever."

Ah. Now _that_ was mildly bewildering; who would be stupid enough to destroy it? "It would have to be a very recent loss, I am afraid. I have worked for your government for a very long time now without interference. You should have listened to Andrew Crupps -- he knows what happened to the last nation that crossed me."

"Crupps is dead," the general said. "Suicide, we think. You're what, forty? You can't have served this country _that_ long. If you can call what you do 'serving'," he added, with a hint of distaste.

Von Ratched clasped his hands behind his back, regarding the man too closely for comfort. "Did you ever ask Andrew which government I overthrew?" he asked at last.

"No. The man was a lunatic by the time I met him."

Interesting. That certainly hadn't been his doing. So he didn't tell the general -- he showed him. In very gruesome detail.

The man went white.

"I am much older than I look," Von Ratched said quietly. He was going to say more, but the strident blare of an alarm wailed through the courtyard, momentarily overridden by a deafening explosion. He sighed. "You will have to excuse me shortly, gentlemen. I have a riot to attend to. But first…"

The assembled personnel drew their weapons, pointing the sidearms at their heads like a platoon of marionettes. The unified report as the triggers were pulled was earsplitting, the spray of blood and brain making curious Rorschach patterns on the tarmac. With so very many of them, it wasn't the easiest feat to pull off, but he knew that occasionally appearances counted.

The politician shrieked and ducked, and Von Ratched snapped his neck without sparing him a glance. He caught the general's collar before the man could turn and flee.

"I am sending you home," he said, the words flat and inflectionless. "You are my witness. If any of you so much as breathe in my direction again, this will be the fate of your government."

He released the man's collar and turned away, torn between euphoria and aggravation. Killing produced a high like nothing else, but it was a base, primal reaction. It was a side-effect of strength, not intellect, thus one best not indulged in. Unfortunately, he might not be through using that strength yet.

Staff scurried around him like driver ants as he stalked the hallways, running toward the blaze with fire extinguishers, or away from it with precious supplies. He ignored them all, and ignored the smoke that became more choking with every step he took.

The Activities Hall was utterly demolished. The collapse of the roof had done more to smother the fire than any extinguishers could have managed -- rather poor planning on the part of the escapees. He kicked at a bit of smoldering Sheetrock with his boot. Time, he thought, to send a helicopter or four. Certain of the Institute's military were loyal to him; they could gas the inmates and see which were salvageable. 

He stepped out across the ruined wall, into the scrub. It was still smoking in places, much of the ground reduced to charcoal. The arson had to be Wrigley, but only one person could have caused the rest of this destruction.

Donovan.

She was lucky she was valuable, because in that moment he could have strangled her. All the inmates needed punishing, but he'd have to think up something special for her. She needed to learn, and the others had to see that following where she led was not a good idea.

\----

Ratiri had no idea how far they'd gone before some of them started flagging. Not far enough to call a proper halt, but they needed a break.

He sat with his head against his knees, his sweat drying sticky and chill. While he hoped the military had taken care of all the escapees couldn't, he wasn't counting on it -- and even if the invaders had won, there was a good chance they were the next target.

Lorna flopped down beside him, and tried to even out her breathing. She'd recovered enough to stagger after him on her own, and insisted he let her do so. She wasn't pale anymore; her face was rosy with exertion, the bite of the wind, and probably a sunburn. Exhausted, yes, but about as giddy with freedom as he was.

"What if they come after us?" he asked, brushing a sweaty tangle of hair from her eyes.

"If they're still in the helicopters, Wrigley and I might manage between us. And who knows how many'll be left, after they fight Von Arsehole." She wiped her forehead on the tail of her shirt.

"What if he wins?" Ratiri asked quietly. "What if he wins, and comes after us?"

She looked at him, an intense, piercing look. "I'll kill myself before I go back there," she said, dead serious. "I wasn't kidding when I said I'd rather die out here than stay."

He shivered. She sounded very…definite…about it, and he wondered if he'd have that much conviction, if it came down to hit. "We have to find water. We won't last more than a day without it." He glanced out at the flat scrubland. There was little way of knowing if they were even fleeing in a straight line, and he really didn't like the total lack of cover.

Geezer apparently didn't, either. He'd been pale and withdrawn since his first proper meeting with Von Ratched, and looked like he might go into a flashback at any moment. Katje was looking after him, but there was only so much she could do.

A sense of deep misgiving descended on Ratiri like a blanket, dampening his runner's high. He didn't need Geezer's precognition to feel this was going to go disastrously wrong, in ways even he couldn't anticipate. While he really didn't want to be part of a mass suicide in the Alaskan wilderness, it would be better than living to find out what Von Ratched would do to them all when he caught them.

They only sat ten minutes before they forced themselves on their way again. The sun was setting fast, and without its marginal warmth his fingers started going numb. Katje did what she could to make them warmer clothing, but her ability took its toll, too. At least they were less visible now, though soon it would be too dark to keep on. And they'd have no choice but to light a fire -- he didn't want to freeze during his first night of freedom.

The sun had just dipped below the horizon when her heard it: helicopters. They were so far and so faint none of the others could be aware of them, but they were coming. _Shit_.

"We need to hide," he said. " _Now._ Find anything you can crawl under -- they've got to have spotlights. _Go._ "

There wasn't much to hide under. The bushes were all stunted and low-growing, suited to this harsh climate. He grabbed Lorna's hand and pulled her under one, getting his face scratched and eyes poked by twigs for his trouble. She smelled…odd, a combination of bitter fear and metallic anger, and her hand gripped his so hard it hurt.

_Remember what I said. I'm not going back._

All he could do was squeeze her hand in response, shivering. The ground was ice-cold and hard, leeching out what little warmth he had. It was possible the choppers would miss them, but realistically they probably had infrared scanners. The question was whether they meant to capture the escapees, or just kill them.

The sound grew closer, louder, until all the others had to hear it, too. Every primitive instinct he had told him to flee; staying put was one of the hardest things he'd ever done in his life.

Lorna shifted beside him, shivering herself, and he knew her intent before she so much as spoke.

" _Don't_ ," he hissed. "They're too far, and you'll never take out all of them."

"I can take out enough," she hissed back. "I'm not going down without dragging a few've those bastards with me."

He didn't have the time to talk her out of it -- and maybe she was right. "Just wait, then. Wait until they're close enough."

"How'm I supposed to know when that'll happen?"

"Good question." His pulse was hammering in his ears, but with it came a peculiar anticipation unlike anything he could remember feeling. It was like Lorna's itch for violence was transmitting itself to him -- which it probably was.

It was too dark to see the choppers, but they were very close now -- and then a searchlight knifed through the night. It was blinding, the brilliant white of some ungodly wattage. Not ten seconds later the lead chopper fired something at them, and he yanked Lorna closer, ready to shield her -- 

"Gas!"

The harsh cry could only have come from Geezer, and he was right: pale, stinging smoke exploded from the canister when it hit the ground, a choking miasma that left Ratiri coughing within seconds.

"Tear gas," Lorna growled. " _Fuck_. Fuck _this_."

She'd broken cover before he could grab her, scrambling upright with the collar of her shirt pulled up over her mouth and nose. Another canister landed, spewing its horrible cargo, and now screams split the night along with the rotors.

A horrible, inhuman screech overrode both, rendering him momentarily deaf -- and then the lead helicopter spun out of control, its rotor crushed. It circled wildly, trying to fight gravity with no leverage, but it crashed to the tundra with such force the ground shook beneath him. It exploded into a fireball that would have done Wrigley proud, and drove Ratiri to his feet. He grabbed Lorna's hand and pulled her after him, trying to find a way out of the choking fog.

She staggered and fell twice, but another helicopter went down, this time exploding before it even hit the ground: Wrigley's doing, probably. The heat was overpowering after so much cold, the stench of burning gasoline joining the gas, the tang of hot metal coating the back of his throat. That Lady, he thought, had said war was coming, and it looked like it had just started.

Behind him, Lorna fell again -- but this time she screamed, clutching her head with her free hand. Not half a second later Ratiri knew why: total agony shot through his brain, tearing at it from the inside out. It only lasted a moment before blessed unconsciousness took him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Run, lab rats, run.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter has implications of mind-rape.

Deep night had fallen on the Institute, and all was quiet. The hallways were cold, and stank of wet wood and smoke, but Von Ratched's office was warm and dry.

He'd had plenty of time to shower and change when they returned. The orderlies dealt with the inmates, imprisoning them in holding cells deep underground. All but Donovan, with whom he needed to…talk.

He'd had no idea she'd be capable of something like that stunt she'd pulled with the helicopters. Taking down walls required only brute strength; taking down helicopters took a precision he hadn't known she possessed. She probably hadn't known it either, until just then. The woman was even more trouble than he'd bargained for.

She was currently still very unconscious, laid out on a gurney at the center of the room. Sooty, sweaty, filthy, her hair matted and filled with debris -- she looked quite out-of-place in the otherwise tidy room. The light of his (third) desk lamp was muted: he didn't want her seeing anything with clarity. The after-effects of the tear gas would more than likely help with that.

Eventually she stirred, and of course swore. Charming. It didn't take her long to figure out her hands were restrained, and then she snapped as awake as total exhaustion would let her.

"Don't bother, Donovan," he said, steepling his hands before his face. He was seated at his desk, again calmed by morphine -- more or less. "You are not going anywhere this time."

She swore again, and blinked hard. He rose and went to stand beside her gurney, looking down at her dirt-streaked face. "I admit, I am at something of a loss as to what to do with you, Donovan. You cost me two pilots, hours of wasted time, and a decent portion of my Institute. Tell me why I should not just kill you."

Her eyes focused a little more, glaring at him even through her weariness. "Go ahead," she whispered. It sounded like she was speaking through a throat full of sand.

He leaned over her, one hand on either of the gurney's rails. "You really mean that, don't you?" he asked, intrigued in spite of his irritation with her. "You truly would not mind if I killed you."

She shook her head, still glaring. "At this point? No."

He straightened, pacing the room. "I could always kill Ratiri," he said, "or Katje. I suspect, however, that would only cement your stubbornness. I believe you would see them as martyrs, and fight me all the harder. Torturing them would likewise only enrage you."

She tried to follow his progress, but barely managed to turn her head as he went to a drawer and took out the hairbrush. _That_ of all things obviously unnerved her, and thank God _something_ did. He drew his armchair around the head of the gurney and pulled the snarled mass of her hair over the edge, and went to work, careful not to pull or tug. "I think I have figured something out about you, Donovan," he said, almost conversationally. "You are proud of your ability to deal with injuries and violence, giving and receiving. You count it a sign of hard-won strength, and I must agree -- it is. In any other situation I would admire it, and in a sense I must even now, however counter it runs to my purposes."

She was tilting her head, trying to look at him, and he sighed, leaning over her so he could meet her eyes. "There are worse things than pain, Donovan," he said quietly. "Things in which you would take no pride. I do not want you to drive me to them, because even I have standards. And they would destroy you," he added, brushing her tangled bangs back from her forehead. Finally she flinched, her eyes huge, but Von Ratched took no satisfaction in her fear. He wasn't lying; there really were places he didn't want to go. And however infuriating he found her, he didn't want to destroy her. Not like that.

"I'm not going to rape you, Donovan," he said. "I certainly don't want to, but I would not need to. The things I could do to your mind would be so much worse."

She paled, and he sat again, going back to work on her hair. "I would find even those distasteful, though. Even monsters such as myself have limits, and that is mine. I have been called a sadist, but I do not fit the true definition of the term -- I take no physical satisfaction in the pain I cause." Mental, yes, but not physical. His motives were more pure than that, if not by much.

Oh, Donovan was afraid now. He didn't even need to read her mind to know how terrified she was. But she was angry, too, furious that he would threaten her so; he could feel her trying to gather what little power she could in her exhausted state, mentally swearing at him in Irish the entire time. It made him sigh again.

"I did warn you, Donovan," he said, setting aside the brush and twining his hands in her hair.

"Don't you bloody _dare_." Good grief, she was actually trying to attack him with her telepathy, though she doubtless thought she was defending herself. She sounded almost as feral as he'd first rendered Duncan, snarling like a trapped animal.

"I am sorry you drove me to this, Donovan," he said, and he actually meant it.

She no doubt thought he'd meant to hurt her with this, because she was horribly surprised when he did exactly the opposite. Her eyes glazed with something quite removed from weariness, her pupils dilating until only a thin ring of green remained. While she choked on her next breath, she remained admirably still, given what he was making her feel. Even now she fought him, though it would be much wiser for her to give in, before he had to do anything worse.

"Stop it," she said, but the words were more gasp than growl.

"Only if you stop fighting me," he said, grave.

"You can't -- you -- you can't make --"

"Yes I can," he said, his fingers shifting in her hair. Donovan shuddered, but it was still partly revulsion. "I hope this is a lesson I will only have to teach you once."

She snarled at him in Irish, a string of incoherent curses that trailed off into something visceral and wordless. Now she simply couldn't hold still, but she couldn't escape, either.

He didn't make her suffer long. She bit her lip and somehow avoided crying out as he guided her senses over the edge, into a delirious flood of bliss. It left her boneless, and Von Ratched mildly disgusted with himself.

She shut her eyes, refusing to look at anything as he guided her back down to normal. "I told you the truth, Donovan," he said, smoothing back her hair, "I did not want to do that, and I do not want to have to do it again."

To that she said nothing, nor did she move. They stayed like that a long while, he with his hand on her forehead, her with her eyes resolutely shut. Indeed she was so still he wondered if he'd broken her permanently -- until her eyes snapped open, and he realized that for once in his life he'd made a very, very grave mistake.

Before, she'd looked at him like he was an irritant -- a foe to be fought, bested, beaten. She'd looked at him in fear and in rage, in pain and defiance, but there was nothing of that now. The only thing in her eyes now was pure murder, their green depths wells of a cold hatred that was almost reptilian. They were nearly inhuman, those pools of frigid emerald ice.

_Oh_ , this had backfired.

Still she said nothing; still she didn't move, but there was tension in her every sinew unlike any he'd yet seen from her. He'd meant her to feel like prey -- instead she'd gone so predatory she was almost fey, but she kept it tightly leashed. Nothing fell, nothing smashed; his lamp remained in one piece. For the first time it looked like she was actively saving her rage, holding it instead of venting it. In all this time she hadn't blinked, but there was an almost sub-audible growl at the back of her throat.

This…was bad. Very bad.

There was no way he could let her remember this. He'd never be able to control her again, unless he forcibly erased her entire personality, and that he did not want to do. Again he touched her forehead, seeking out her thoughts --

\-- and slammed into a barrier of mental titanium.

The shock of it left him reeling, and through some feat of strength as inhuman as her gaze, Donovan ripped out both her restraints and launched herself at him.

For once, his reflexes were too slow -- she was on him in half a heartbeat, her teeth latching onto his neck like a wild animal, tearing and gouging with surprising ferocity. Human teeth were too blunt to break skin on their own, but the jaw could exert tremendous pressure, and Donovan tore at his throat like a wild dog.

Adrenaline and lingering morphine kept him from registering much pain right away -- a good thing, because prying her loose wasn't easy. He probably re-fractured her wrist as he finally hurled her away from him.

She hit the wall, but rebounded with unsettling speed. Her eyes glittered through the tangled curtain of her bangs, bloody teeth bared. She had blood all over her smock, too, mingling with dirt and soot -- his blood, he realized. It poured from the wound at his neck, a crimson flood dyeing the once-pristine white of his coat. He clapped a hand over it, putting as much pressure as he could, and reached out with his mind. Maybe he couldn't get into hers for now, but he sought the slender thread of her consciousness.

Sought it, and found it. She collapsed at once, and as soon as he'd made sure she was still breathing, Von Ratched went to the bathroom attached to the office. It was certainly bright enough in here, and he surveyed Donovan's grisly handiwork in the mirror.

It was bad, but it wouldn't be lethal. Thankfully she'd missed his carotid artery, though she'd somehow chewed through the sub-dermis and into the muscle in places. It was going to scar horribly, no matter what he did.

Carefully he swabbed the ragged wound as best he could, suturing it himself. Coat and shirt were ruined, but he had many more. His apartment had been untouched by the fire; he could retreat to its calm when his work was done.

Donovan was still well under when he returned to his office. The carpet, he noted dispassionately, would have to be replaced: there was no way the stains were ever coming out. Already they were drying, sticky and rusty-dark.

He knelt beside her, brushing the hair from her eyes. She looked peaceful enough now, though he knew it wouldn't last -- not unless he wiped this whole incident from her memory.

This time he approached her mind much more subtly. All it wound up meaning was that this time he didn't run headlong into her block; it was still there, cold and smooth and completely unbreakable. He knew why she'd done it, of course, but how? And why now? Certainly he had put her through agony long before this wretched day, yet it took this disaster for her to build so complete a defense. 

But no, he knew why. He was right: pain she could handle, but this was not pain. She'd probably not felt anything like that before in her life, and she certainly wouldn’t have wanted it from him.

To Von Ratched's highly elastic morality, he didn't consider that rape. He hadn't hurt her and he had definitely taken nothing pleasant in it himself -- but it was still a violation that had backfired. And he couldn't go into her mind to fix it.

Now what was he to do with her? Putting her in isolation would be a terrible idea. Maybe he ought to foist her on Duncan, since they had a unique ability to calm one another. He'd give her a proper tranquilizer first, and hope she didn't wake up still a berserker.

Somebody had to clean her up first, though, and it probably shouldn't be him. That wasn't morality; it was manners, his warped idea of politeness. Unconscious or not, he would leave her her physical dignity.

He put her in the care of Grieggs, who stared at his bloody shirt and bandaged neck in open shock. She'd say nothing of it to anyone, he knew, either of his wound or Donovan's current state.

When they'd done he returned to his room, tossing his coat and shirt into the trash and washing the dried blood from his chest. What a nightmare of a day this had been, all told. Some alien feeling was niggling at the corner of his mind, an emotion he had no name for. It was unpleasant, but he was so tired he went to sleep without examining it.

\----

Lorna woke to a bizarre paradox of calm and rage.

Physically she was beyond relaxed, courtesy of the morphine drip in her arm. Mentally she was ready to destroy something, and at first she didn't know why.

Memory hit her with a sickening rush, and she rolled over and threw up off the side of the bed. The room was yet another unfamiliar one -- not that she paid it much heed. Roiling horror joined her rage, churning in a dreadful sea of emotion that threatened to tear her bones apart. She shivered like an aspen, tempted to tear her own skin off if it could make her forget.

Bizarrely, there was no shame, which had to have been that bastard's primary goal. Violation, unrelenting disgust, almost terrifying fury -- but not shame. In the state she'd been in, fighting hadn't been an option. She'd done what she could and it wasn't enough; in that she had nothing to be ashamed of. He'd cheated, plain and simple, and she'd kill him for it. It might be months before she could manage it, but he was going to die.

"Lorna?"

She blinked, and when her eyes focused she found Ratiri looking at her. He was beyond worried, the animal awareness shifting in his eyes. He could see her aura -- he had to know something had happened to her, but Von Ratched was right in one respect: she couldn't bring herself to tell him what had happened. She wanted no one's pity, not even Ratiri's, and pity was exactly what she would get.

But she had to say something. What came out surprised her, though. "Ratiri, I killed two people."

It more than explained her trauma, and she really was genuinely disturbed by it. Yes, they'd worked for Von Ratched, but that didn't automatically make them evil. Hansen, after all, was no monster. They'd died in literal combat, but the fact remained that she'd killed them. And, oddly, she grieved for that more than anything else.

Ratiri struggled to sit up. He was still filthy, though Lorna wasn't -- and she shuddered, not wanting to think why or how she'd got clean. "It was them or us," he said. His voice was so hoarse it gave out on the last word, and he stumbled when he came to sit beside her bed.

"They're still dead," she whispered, as he took her hand, "and we're back here. They died for nothing, and I did it."

He said nothing, but his free hand hovered over her hair. At first she had no idea what he was doing, but a little of her misery drained away. She shifted, trying to watch his hand, but couldn't even manage that.

"Shh," he said. "I'm just cleaning out your aura. You'll feel better in a bit."

Lorna shut her eyes, letting him carry on. The maelstrom of confused grief and fury wasn't so bad when he was near. She felt safe, even though neither of them really were so long as they remained here. At least it was warm, and she wasn't in any pain. Anymore, that had become a novelty.

"I killed my father," she found herself saying. "It's why I went to prison. I didn't mean to, but he was just as dead. Was a stupid accident, but I was still the one that did it."

Ratiri's hand didn't pause. "What happened?" he asked, and oddly, there was no judgment in his voice.

"Went home when I was twenty," she said sleepily. "Picked a fight with him. 'Course he was pissed out've his mind, and when I hit him too hard he went arse over teakettle down the front steps. Cracked his head on the walk and died with his brains leaking out."

To her distress, she wasn't crying. She _should_ be -- tears might give her better catharsis than anything right now -- but she couldn't. Her eyes burned dry and hot. "And I damn near tore Von Ratched's throat out last night. I think I'm in for it, allanah, and I'm afraid you are, too."

Thank God, he didn't ask why. "Move over," was all he said, and she did. When he crawled up next to her she wrapped her arm around his waist, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder. "Go to sleep, Lorna," he said. "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

\----

Von Ratched spent the next morning making too many irritating arrangements. Private contractors would have to be hired and flown in to repair the damage the escape had caused, and all the requisite supplies imported; he needed mercenaries to replace his military. All his drugs, equipment, and food would now have to come from outside sources as well. It all wasted valuable time, but he didn't trust anyone else to do it.

The bodies on the landing tarmac had to be dealt with, too. For that he drafted many inmates, exhausted though they were. It would _keep_ them exhausted, and hopefully traumatize them too much to think about organizing any further resistance.

Duncan and Donovan he left well enough alone. The orderly who delivered their food came back unharmed; she reported that both were sleeping. Duncan was still in one piece, so Donovan's berserk wrath obviously hadn't lasted. They'd be left to themselves a while yet, and he'd send Hansen to check on them later.

Von Ratched remained uneasy when he thought about Donovan, and that troubled him. Had it only been frustration at his failure he could have ignored it, but there was more to it than that. Disgust at the level he'd had to stoop to he could understand, but there was something else, something he had no name for. And that annoyed him greatly.

His office stank so strongly of blood that he'd opened all the windows, cold though it was outside. He went to one and observed the desolate yard, the lines of Donovan's would-be garden still marked in orange. Sitting in here was no longer an option; he had to move, before his restlessness drove him as mad as some of his patients.

So he put on his overcoat and went outside, observing the body disposal from a distance. Some of his workers were weeping, some too ill to function, but progress was being made. The brightness of the sun made the macabre scene even worse, but at least it was too cold for the corpses to stink.

Geezer wasn't sick, but that didn't surprise Von Ratched; he was probably the only one who had seen a dead body before. He worked in grim-faced silence, loading corpses onto the long flat carts that were usually used to haul materials in the military base. Occasionally he told DaVries to look away, but she rarely listened. She was a pale shadow of herself, her face white and her expression distinctly nauseated. Hansen finally went and drew her aside, pulling her away from the carnage with an arm around her shoulders. Von Ratched hadn't authorized his attending staff to do that unless an inmate dropped from weariness, but he wouldn't chastise the man over it. Hansen looked disturbed enough himself.

Watching the scene didn't give Von Ratched the pleasure he'd expected. The inmates were certainly being punished well enough, but strangely, he could take no satisfaction from it. He was still troubled in a way he'd never before felt.

He followed after Hansen, who had taken DaVries inside. Unfortunately, the young doctor was quite obviously infatuated with her, but he could let that be for now. This was not what some of his staff had signed on for, and he couldn't push them too hard yet.

"Hansen," he said, when DaVries had been delivered to her room., "I want you to check on Lorna and Duncan. They are in holding room B, and I believe you would upset them less than anyone else."

Hansen gave him a startled look, and a check of his mind showed he was surprised his boss had called a patient by their first name. It gave Von Ratched pause, too; when had he started doing that?

"I will, Doctor. I thought it best to bring Katje --"

Von Ratched cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Do as you see fit," he said. "I will be in Nurse Grieggs' office. Report to me there."

He left Hansen to it, still in a foul mood. Unfortunately, he was sure it would only get worse before it got better.

\----

Lorna didn't stir when the door opened, but Ratiri did. He'd eaten his share of breakfast and gone to lay with her again, but he couldn't fall back to sleep. Now he tensed, ready to attack, but it was only Doctor Hansen, who entered very quietly when he saw Lorna was asleep.

"I've been sent to check on you," he said, setting down his black doctor's bag. "Has she not woken up?" he added, eying the untouched plate of food. 

"Not yet," Ratiri said softly. "And I'd like to let her sleep as long as she can."

"Then let me give you a once-over. I'll wait to perform her exam until she wakes."

He sat up a little warily, but there was nothing off in Hansen's aura. It was still the mingling of blue-green that spoke of a curious nature, though also tinged with a shade of grey that meant immense worry. He wasn't like the others, the staff who regarded their charges as barely human.

He performed a basic exam; ears, nose, throat, pulse and respiration, and carefully removed the morphine drip. "Tear-gas exposure, am I right?" he asked, looking at Ratiri with troubled hazel eyes.

"Got it in one," Ratiri said, wincing. His throat felt like it had been scoured with sandpaper, and no amount of water eased it. Every muscle he had ached, and his eyes still burned. "Lorna's worse off, though. Mentally, I mean. She killed two people out there, and I'm guessing Von Ratched rubbed her face in it, because it's made her a complete mess. She says she tried to bite his throat out."

"I'd believe it," Hansen said, grim. "If the bandage on his neck was any indication, she almost succeeded." He paused. "Why did you all try to escape like that? I know it's not pleasant here, but even if you'd succeeded, it would have been suicide."

Ratiri stared at him in disbelief. "You really don't know what's going on here, do you? Von Ratched's not testing us, he's _torturing_ us. Sure, it's in the name of science, but the result is the same."

Hansen said nothing. His silence made Ratiri think he wasn't really surprised. The man had worked with Von Ratched, even if only on mundane, acceptable projects, and anyone who spent time around that monster couldn't help but identify him for what he was.

But his aura hinted there might be something more. "I don't want to tell you this," he said, so quietly it was almost a whisper, "but I'm worried, and maybe you should be, too. I know this doesn't sound like much, but he referred to Lorna by her first name, and he doesn't do that. Ever. And I mean not with anyone, not just his patients. I don't think he realizes he's doing it, either. And…he's not an easy man to read, but I've got a little…extra ability there," he added, lightly stressing the word 'ability'. "He's fixated on her, even if he doesn't know it yet. And I think it's not just professional."

Horrible a thought though that was, it explained the subtle shift in the bastard's aura. "What the hell do you think he's going to do about it?"

Lorna chose this unfortunate moment to enter the conversation. "Die," she said, rolling over onto her back. "He doesn't know it yet, but he's a dead man walking."

There was a flatness to her words that was truly horrible. Even it wasn't as bad as the ice in her eyes, though.

"Lorna…" Hansen said. "He won't lower his guard around you, especially not now. I'll keep you two away from him as best I can, and he's going to be more than busy enough for at least the next week. But honestly…well, some of the staff aren't sure he's even human."

"'Course he is," she retorted, her eyes only half-focused as she stared at the ceiling. "He bleeds red. He's human, and sooner or later he'll make a mistake. And when that happens, I'll make sure it's the last thing he ever does."

Something cold washed through Ratiri's veins. This was not Lorna as he knew her. The woman he'd known had been foul-mouthed, hot-tempered, and as protective as a mother bear. This current Lorna was a creature of ice, her rage carefully contained and cold as the Bering Sea. What the hell had Von Ratched _done_ to her?

"He can't get in my head anymore," she said, almost conversationally. "Not at all. He went too far in my mind by half, and now it's locked him out. Don't need to think in Irish anymore."

What on Earth--? Ratiri wasn't sure he wanted to ask. "You can't be sure of that," he warned.

"Oh, yes I can." The conviction in her voice was downright chilling. "He's out for good, and I think he knows it."

An incredibly uncomfortable silence followed that, in which she continued to stare at the ceiling. She seemed so very convinced, and again he wondered what had happened last night. And he especially wondered how, if she really tried to kill Von Ratched, she'd escaped with her own life -- and in one piece. Unfortunately, that leant unsettling credence to Hansen's…theory. Even if Von Ratched had thought her too valuable to kill, he could easily have broken half the bones in her body. Unless he'd hurt her in…other ways.

"Lorna," he said, "did Von Ratched…" He couldn't finish the question.

"Rape me?" she said bluntly, and he winced. "No. He's not stupid enough to make himself so physically vulnerable." She paused, a dreadful, thoughtful pause. "Anyway, it's my mind he wants, not me. 'S more…the _idea_ of me. I'm betting anything his next trick'll be trying to steal my curse and give it to someone else." Only now did she turn her head, her stare unnervingly piercing when she looked at Hansen. "I'd keep an eye on Katje, if I was you. If he was going to try and transplant my curse to anyone, she'd be favorite." 

Hansen gulped.

"I'm thinking you wouldn't mind hanging around her more, anyway," she added, and even his dark skin managed a blush. "Make her happy, Hansen. Someone in this hellhole ought to be."

The poor man actually stammered, and left in a tearing hurry. Ratiri couldn't blame him, after a pronouncement like that.

He looked back at Lorna, and wondered what he was to do now. He had to draw her back to herself, as much as he was able. "Up you get," he said, taking her hand and pulling her upright. "If nothing else, you've got to eat."

\----

Hansen arrived at Grieggs' office far more quickly than Von Ratched had anticipated -- and he arrived very, very troubled. 

Von Ratched didn't waste time questioning him. The man looked so shaken that there was no point; telepathy was the only sensible option.

What he found left him disturbed, and he stared at Hansen long and hard, his fingers steepled in contemplation. "Is that what you think?" he asked quietly. "Is that what she thinks?"

Hansen, wide-eyed, said nothing. Wise young man.

"I have no ill intentions against DaVries," Von Ratched said. "If she will have you, do as you like. Rest assured I have no ill intentions toward Lorna, either." There was just the barest trace of emphasis on 'ill', that was not lost on the poor young doctor. "Off with you. See to DaVries, if you would like. I will not send her out on grave detail again."

It was his way of offering Hansen a present, and when he'd fled, Von Ratched leaned back in his chair, thoughtful.

Well. Wasn't that an interesting bit of information. He sat still a long while, wondering how true it was. Certainly he wasn't surprised Lorna would still be so hell-bent on killing him, but as for the rest -- how much truth was there?

Transplanting her ability to someone more amenable would never have occurred to him. Quite aside from the fact that such a thing was impossible, she and it came as a package. An obstinate, annoying, difficult package, but nevertheless inseparable. He'd wanted her mind since he'd got his hands on her, but he wouldn't take her apart to get it. And as sickened with himself though he was after last night, he was startled to find he wanted the rest of her, too.

Even he realized how wrong _that_ was. To his mind he'd done what was necessary, unpleasant though it was for them both. And it was supposed to remain unpleasant, or he'd be the kind of weak-willed cretin he despised. A doctor did not get invested in his patients -- in any way.

Yet he had long before now. She'd dominated his thoughts since she first wrecked his cafeteria, and that wasn't a good sign, either. 

He'd have to see what could be done about that.

True, getting into her mind was no longer an option, but that only presented a challenge worthy of him. He couldn't cheat, even if he wanted to. It might take years, but Von Ratched was a patient man. He'd always got what he wanted, sooner or later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was...unfortunate. Things will not look up for any of them any time soon, either.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Katje probably would have gone insane if it weren't for Geezer and Gerald Hansen.

Escape had seemed like a game to her, an obstacle course. Capture had been terrible, but it could have been borne. No, it was the corpses that broke her.

She hadn't seen many physically disgusting things in her life, and even her worst nightmares hadn't done justice to the horror on that tarmac. For the first time in her life, her sunny nature had deserted her.

Geezer often sat with her, silent but _there_. He didn't say much, but he never needed to. 

Gerald was the unexpected one. He brought her little gifts, the things she liked: hair care supplies, chocolate, even a bottle of whipped cream vodka he found God only knew where. Geezer made sure she rationed it, and she shared it with him, though he complained horribly about the taste. The surprising thing was that Gerald asked absolutely nothing of her in return. Katje had plenty of experience with men plying her in an effort to get in her pants, and he wasn't doing that. To her amazement, he was giving her things because he genuinely wanted her to feel better.

He would take her and Geezer out into the yard, too, into a world outside that didn't contain bodies. They worked little by little to establish the garden, and day after day Gerald wheedled more inmates to help. She didn't want to know what it cost him, but he was the only staff member who seemed to actually care about them as people.

The sun burned her fair skin terribly at first, and he brought her some aloe, apologizing for the lack of sunscreen. He looked so contrite and sheepish that she smiled for the first time in two weeks.

Two days later, she cornered him after dinner. The Activities Hall was still a wreck, so they stayed in the cafeteria before being herded back to their rooms like errant children. Even now, voices remained subdued, but the misery that followed the escape attempt had dialed back a notch.

"You have apartment, yes?" she said. "Take me there later."

Gerald swallowed, his expression a mingling of panic and regret. "Katje, I'm not doing all this because I want--"

She cut him off with an imperious finger, pressing it against his mouth. "I know," she said. "And that is why I do."

He sighed, and took her hand. "Katje, you barely know me," he said. "Give it a month or two at least, and see if you still feel the same."

Her expression darkened, along with her mood. "We may not _have_ that long."

Gerald cast a surreptitious glance around the room, and drew her further away from the rest of the crowd, well out of earshot. He looked…anguished, almost. "Yes we do," he said, and sighed again. "I've been put in something of an untenable position."

Katje looked at him blankly, leaning back against the wall and crossing her arms. "What?"

He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, searching for a better term. "Morton's Fork?" he offered.

"Still what?"

"What about 'damned if you do, damned if you don't'?"

"That one I know."

He ran a hand through his short, curly hair -- a nervous, awkward gesture. "Von Ratched agreed to leave you alone, so long as I…cooperate. If I don't -- if I try to stop what he's doing -- he'll do worse than kill you." He shook his head, bitter. "As if I could stop him anyway."

Poor man was beyond miserable, torn in ways someone as naturally gentle as he should never have to know. "Is Lorna and Ratiri he…do things to?"

"I can't tell you what it is," he said. "If I did, he'd know. I can't stop him -- I don't even know what he's really doing -- but I've got a chance to keep you safe. You, and hopefully others. And that's all I _can_ do."

It grieved her to see him so distraught. He must have learned very recently what kind of place he was really in. She had a feeling he'd suspected early on, but dismissed it, willfully blinding himself. Now he was faced with incontrovertible evidence, and the guilt was eating him alive. "The we do what we can," she said, and let it mean whatever he wanted it to mean. The fact that Von Ratched had yet to come after anyone else, and that Lorna and Ratiri hadn't been seen since the escape attempt…well, at least they probably weren't dead, though they might be wishing they were.

Gerald took her hand, and squeezed it gently. They had solidarity, if nothing else.

\----

The room Lorna and Ratiri were put in now was a slightly larger variation on the normal inmate room. Just as sterile and white, but it had a window, and Lorna spent a good hour standing on the head of her bed, looking out at the vast tundra. It was cloudy today, but she didn't care. Natural daylight alone helped her in ways aside from what Ratiri did.

She wanted outside so badly she could taste it, wanted to escape from this quietly murderous stranger who had taken her over. That alien self scared her, for her anger had never been like this. Her temper had always run hot, not cold, easily given vent to, and then the air was clear. She had never been a woman to hold a grudge, except against her father -- and look how _that_ had ended.

But she wasn't going to ask Von Ratched to let them out. She wasn't going to say a word to that bastard until she absolutely had to, and she'd only put up with it then because she had to be near him to kill him. Thank God he couldn't read her mind anymore. He was bright enough to know she'd try sooner or later, but this meant he wouldn't know when, or how.

She sat down and looked at Ratiri. He was going even more stir-crazy than she was, though he tried not to show it. The last few days she'd tried to let his mind roam, at least, showing him Dublin and the places she'd been as a roadie. He'd cleaned out her aura when she grew too irritated for words, and they kept each other as sane as they could. Both would have lost it without the company of the other.

A week passed like that before an orderly came to do anything but deliver food. He was a big man, obviously ex-military, all muscles and a closely-shaved head. He towered over Lorna, but he nevertheless looked wary. "Doctor wants to see you," he said.

She regarded him thoughtfully for so long he started to squirm, almost imperceptibly. A large part of her wanted to say no out of sheer spite, but in the end she nodded.

_Ratiri, allanah, I'll be back in a bit,_ she sent him as she stood. _Don't worry, I won't try to kill the bastard yet_.

Ratiri looked very much like he wanted to protest, but she gave him as reassuring a glance as she could. It told him the only way she wouldn't be leaving this meeting in one piece would be if Von Ratched didn't, either.

The hallway was downright spacious after so long in various cramped cells, though the gloom outside the windows made the interior seem even harsher. It was empty but for them, and she wondered what was happening to all the others. And how many others were left.

She wasn't surprised the orderly didn't take her to Von Ratched's office, given how bloody she'd left the place. This was an area of the Institute she didn't recognize -- not that that was saying much, since the whole place was so ungodly featureless and sterile. And, at the moment, so completely deserted it was creepy. She and this hulking man might well have been the only people alive here, and she thought, a little absurdly, of zombie movies. Seemed like half of them had scenes like this, characters wandering a hospital-turned-tomb until something jumped out and ate some poor sod.

The thought made Lorna laugh, very quietly, and her guard cast her a distinctly nervous look. What had Von Ratched been telling the staff about her? That she really was a dangerous lunatic? He might not be so far off the mark, come to think of it.

The office they arrived at had once been Grieggs', if the nameplate on the door was any indication, and she wondered what the nurse had thought about being booted out of her space. Not that Von Ratched would care one way or the other. This one was much more stark than his; Grieggs hadn't tried to inject much personality into it. It was the same tiresome white as the rest of the Institute, and a shade too warm for Lorna's comfort. She sat in a hard plastic chair, and tried to veil her hostility as she looked at Von Ratched.

His neck was still bandaged, she noted with something like smugness. The rest of him was as immaculate as ever, but that only made the heavy layers of white gauze all the more incongruous and obvious. His expression was peculiar, though; he'd always been a hard man to read, but now she had no idea at all what was going on behind those pale eyes.

He said nothing, and she kept resolutely silent herself, unwilling to look away. They were like children locked in a staring contest, though she couldn't help but blink now and again.

"If you just brought me here so you can stare at me like a lizard, I'll not stay," she said at last. "I've had about enough've you for two lifetimes." So much for hiding her hostility -- it dripped from every syllable, and thickened her accent to a point where he might not understand her at all. Even her sister had trouble with it, at times.

"I brought you here to apologize," he said, and her eyebrows shot up before she could help it. Sure, he was just trying to manipulate her, but she doubted he'd apologized for anything in his life.

"I think the Americans have a phrase," she said. "'Day late and a dollar short'. Save it for someone who'll believe it, Doctor. I'll do your damn tests, but don't sit there and insult my intelligence trying to make me believe you're sorry." There, she'd told him she'd cooperate, hard as it was to force herself to say it. Cooperating was the only chance she had of getting close enough to kill him.

To her surprise, something close to overt anger darkened his expression. Shouldn't he be pleased by that? Damn the bastard, could nothing make him happy?

"I am sorry," he said, and it sounded like it irked him to admit it. "I never thought I would say this of anything, but I wish I had not done that to you."

"Well, that makes two've us," Lorna said flatly. "Can I go now?"

"No." He was looking at her with a mingling of emotions she couldn't decipher. Exasperation, obviously, and a regret she chalked up to the barrier his stupidity had allowed her to create, but there was something else, something so alien to him it took her a moment to identify it: guilt.

What the hell.

It was genuine, too. Contrition could be faked, but not this kind of guilt. Further, she didn't think he was aware of it at all. And what on Earth was she to make of that?

"No?" she echoed, arching an eyebrow. "What else is there to say, for God's sake? Try to get in my bloody head again and I'll finish tearing your throat out, but otherwise, go ahead with your damned 'experiments'. And if you really want to apologize, let Ratiri and I outside for a while. We're both going mental, being cooped up all the time."

Something unpleasant sparked in his eyes at her mention of Ratiri, but it was gone so fast she couldn't be sure she'd seen it at all. "Very well," he said. "I will go a step further and allow DaVries and Geezer to accompany you, but no one else. Doctor Hansen will supervise."

She could live with that. Hansen was maybe the only decent staff person in this damn place. "Deal," she said. "But I want some warning before you do any painful tests."

Von Ratched's surprise at her easy acquiescence was almost comical. He looked at her suspiciously, and she gave him a bland smile in response. Let him wonder. Maybe his distrust would trip him up, if he was forever wondering how she'd really react to something. If this was to work at all, she had to be unpredictable, or as much so as she could manage. She was normally such a creature of impulse that it wouldn't be easy, but she was also stubborn. For this, she could force herself to think before she acted.

After all, it was for a good cause.

He regarded her in silence for a long while, but she refused to be discomfited by his stare. That cold anger buoyed her.

"Very well, Lorna," he said at last. "I will notify Hansen, and you and Duncan may go outside after lunch."

"Why d'you do that?" she couldn't help but ask. "Why d'you call me by my first name?"

To her immense surprise, he actually froze for a moment. "Why shouldn't I?" 

"Because you don't for anyone else," she said evenly. "And I don't like it."

"Well, I do," he said, completely inflectionless. "Get used to it."

"Fine," she snapped, and added under her breath, " _Raoul_."

The force of his glare unfortunately hid whatever shock he might have felt. "How do you know my first name?"

"Telepathy goes both ways," she retorted. "Or didn't you know that?" That wasn't how she'd found out at all, but he didn't need to know that. Let him second-guess every single time he'd been in her mind. It wasn't as though he had any way of verifying it now.

His gaze was so piercing and so steady it started to unnerve her in spite of herself. "If that were true, Lorna Saoirse Donovan, you would not be nearly so flippant with me."

First, middle, and last. This was not, she realized belatedly, a game she should have started. He could easily have got her middle name from whatever files he had on her, but he was pronouncing it right, _Sheersa_ , rather than mangling the vowels as most non-Irish did. Shit.

"Touché," she said, just barely keeping her voice even. A moment later that frigid anger surfaced again, though; it told her that odds were good his implied threat was just to keep her in line. Well, sod him. She'd just have to try to take it in stride. "Can I go _now_?"

Again a long, measured stare. "Yes. But I want to see you again tomorrow."

_Brilliant._ She meant it, too. All the more opportunity to search for weak points.

\----

When she'd gone, Von Ratched rubbed his temples. Repairs were going well, his mercenaries had arrived, and the inmates were suitably subdued. Everything had been perfect until a single conversation with that accursed woman. 

He asked himself for the hundredth time just why he wanted her. She was still aggravating beyond all belief, and he knew her submission to further testing had to be a ruse. Was he really juvenile enough to want her just because she would be so hard to get? The thought was troubling.

There was yet more paperwork to attend to, and he did it, but his mind was elsewhere. Lorna was upsetting his equanimity with such frequency that he really ought to just kill her, unique subject or not. He wanted to tell himself he'd do just that, should he find another telepath, but he knew he would not. Maddening though she was, his thoughts had latched onto her, and he had an unfortunate suspicion he wasn't going to get bored of the game this time.

Things within the Institute had stabilized to the point that he could probably resume experimenting on _someone_ , and tomorrow he would. While this might no longer be his job, he'd never been in it for the money, or even the benefit of his superiors. As had been the case all his life, he did what he did to try to satisfy his insatiable curiosity. And no personal upheaval would get in the way of that.

\----

Ratiri was almost happier to be outside than Lorna. Never in his life had he appreciated fresh air so much, even if it was cold and extremely damp. The overcast sky was hardly cheering, but he was _outside_ , among scents and sounds a world better than anything in the Institute.

He wandered on his own for a while, letting the tension of his confinement drain away. When Lorna emerged -- indeed in one piece -- she stayed near Katje, Geezer, and Hansen, allowing him to get everything out of his system in peace. Her aura was no more perturbed than when she left; there couldn't have been much fighting between her and Von Ratched. He'd ask about it later, when their freedom was over.

Meanwhile, these new senses remained fascinating. He'd given up being surreptitious about sniffing Lorna's hair a week ago: fortunately, she tolerated it with a certain amount of amusement. The change in his hearing, however, was much more noticeable out here. The sigh of the breeze through the low, stunted bushes; the click and chitter of what few insects braved this harsh climate; even the scurry of rodents too far and fast to be seen. If they ever got _out_ of here, he'd have to test these senses in all kinds of settings. What would Scotland be like to him, now? How much sweeter would the moors be? 

He'd like to go to India, too; he'd never been to his mother's homeland. It was a trip he'd planned to make with Katherine before she died, and when he'd lost her, he'd lost interest in traveling -- and in pretty much everything else but his work. And now he might never get the chance. Unless Von Ratched died, none of them were going anywhere.

He was beginning to wonder if Lorna might really be able to kill the bastard. She was set on it to a degree that was downright scary. The question was how far she'd be willing to go to do it, how many other people she'd be willing to sacrifice. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

There was darkness in her aura. It was nothing like Von Ratched's horrible black, but it was there, a shadow in the middle of all that rainbow. He'd tried to pull it out, as he could do with negative things like fear and pain, but it held fast. Whatever Von Ratched had done to her had been bad enough to…twist her, to add that darkness. And it always grew worse when her expression closed off, and that chilly, serpentine calculation took over her gaze. That only happened when the doctor was mentioned, and quite honestly it scared Ratiri. It was fear not of her, but for her. He'd become very fond of the odd little woman, and he was afraid this change in her would eventually become permanent. Von Ratched might have already destroyed her, without either of them realizing it.

He wanted _Lorna_ back, the Lorna he'd first met. He wanted to take her to Scotland with him, introduce her to his mother -- they were both small, domineering women, so they'd either get along famously or fight like cats and dogs. While he wasn't _in_ love with her did love her, in a way. But this new her sometimes terrified him.

She looked at him across the courtyard, and a little of the shadow left her aura. It always did, when she was near him, but it came back later. And he didn't know what to do.

That odd inner animal did, though. _It_ had latched onto her in a way much simpler and more primitive than anything his human mind could have come up with. As far as it was concerned, she was his -- something he could never tell her, for it would only piss her off. She was not the kind of person who would appreciate being claimed by anyone or anything, and he really couldn't blame her. The part of him that was still Ratiri was pretty disturbed by the idea, too.

If she was going to seriously try to kill Von Ratched, he couldn't let her do it alone. The inner animal wouldn't let him hang back even if he wanted to, but he didn't want to. He wouldn't let her do anything that could break her further.

_Communal murder_ , he thought. _That probably counts as commitment in some cultures._

\----

Geezer sat a little away from Katje, Hansen, and Lorna, smoking a cigarette from a pack Katje had given him. The damp cold ached in his bones, but he savored it anyway, not knowing when he'd get to feel it again. Come winter, going outside might not be an option.

Hansen was looking very askance at Lorna, while trying not to let her or Katje know. Geezer wasn't a hundred percent certain what the kid's curse was, but it had to be something that let him look past people's facades. She was turning into the thing Geezer had seen in his vision, but Hansen couldn't know that, and he didn't know _her_ well enough to spot the difference. She ought to just look like some cranky, belligerent little woman, but he saw more. And that wasn't good. None of this was good, because come winter, they'd be trapped here. Really trapped.

They were far enough north that the snow would come soon enough, too. When the wild weather set in, odds were good nothing would be getting in or out by air for weeks on end. However smart a man Von Ratched was, Geezer wasn't sure he'd have any real idea what he was dealing with when it came to an Alaskan winter. He might not like being stuck here as thoroughly as everyone else.

There had been no more visions since the first, but it had been long enough that the bastard would probably call him back any day now. He was as physically recovered as he was going to get, and he didn't want to know what lengths Von Ratched would go to, to try and artificially induce a prophetic seizure. He couldn't even hope it would kill him, because somebody had to look after all these goddamn kids, and it looked like he was it.

Shit, look at Ratiri out there. He was like a dog -- no, like a wolf, predatory in a way he didn’t seem to be aware of. _He_ ought to be the stable one right now, the one looking after the others. Katje was just a kid, and doctor though he was, Hansen was little more. Lorna had her own troubles, and in any event he had a feeling she'd never been a paragon of responsibility. He recognized those tiny broken capillaries along her cheeks -- she'd been a hard drinker for years.

No, he was it, and that worried him. Von Ratched wasn't going to kill him any time soon, but if he was too incapacitated, he'd be just as useless as if he was dead.

A sudden gust of wind blew the cherry off the end of his cigarette, and he grumbled as he tried to re-light it. Katje better stock up on these before the snow it, and the Institute better stock up on _everything_. Those big windows in the cafeteria were gone, but the corridors had too man to be heat-efficient. What even powered this place? It couldn't all be generators, or they'd go through enough gas to fuel a small country every week. Maybe they had wind turbines somewhere, but those wouldn't last long in a full-on sub-arctic storm.

_Von Ratched's no moron_ , he thought. All his damned experiments were too precious for him to want to risk losing power, but that didn't mean he wouldn't shut down all nonessential areas. The inmates might wind up crowded into cells underground, and that would be even more of a nightmare. The rooms they were in were bad enough, but at least they got natural daylight.

He stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. Odds were good they were all going to hell, anyway.

\----

Next morning Von Ratched decided to start his day with Geezer. He didn't want another confrontation with Lorna so early.

He hadn't slept last night. That wasn't at all unusual -- often, even the morphine wasn't enough. By now he was too used to his insomnia to be unduly irritated by it, but he did drink more coffee than usual.

At least he waited until six to summon Geezer. He spent the early hours of the morning sketching -- it was the only true hobby he had that wasn't somehow related to his work. Nobody else knew about it, for it didn't do to appear too human to the underlings.

It was warm in his apartment now, and calm. The soft glow of a pair of floor lamps illuminated the cream-colored paper, and the only sound was the faint scratching of his fountain pen. He drew Berlin as it had been when he was a young man, occasionally pausing to sip his coffee. He'd had plenty of artistic talent to begin with, and years of practice had honed it into something any professional would have been proud of. His favorites he hung about the apartment, but the rest occupied a dozen folders in a desk drawer. Drawing gave him the closest thing to catharsis he could find.

Eventually he set it aside and opened his blinds, letting the daylight in. At this time of year, the sun only properly set for an hour or two, something that was beginning to bother many of the staff. It bothered a lot of the inmates, too, but he hardly cared about them. He showered and shaved on auto-pilot, his mind turning over today's proposed experiment.

He was quite certain it was possible to induce an artificial seizure in Geezer -- the only question was how long it would take. And he thought what he meant to try would do it. He'd concocted a set of drugs that, with the aid of telepathy, ought to trick the man's mind into believing it should seize. Never had he known anyone whose ability took such a violent toll on them, and he suspected hard living was not the only thing that had turned Geezer into the wreck he'd become.

The room he'd set up in F wing was quite different from the rest of the labs. He knew better than to restrain someone having a seizure, so he'd cleared the floor and laid out a mat from the staff gymnasium. Only the counter along one wall remained, the vials containing his assorted drugs neatly lined up in a test tube rack. The lighting was kept dim, to relax Geezer's brain as much as possible.

Geezer himself arrived groggy, and Von Ratched thought that he had not slept well, either. His faded eyes were red-rimmed, his face haggard -- perhaps he needed to be sedated at night, along with the more dangerous inmates. Tired or not, hew as rightfully wary, try though he might to hide it.

"Good morning," Von Ratched said, as close to pleasantly as he was capable of. "If you would please sit on that mat, we will begin."

Amusingly, his politeness made Geezer more wary than ever, but the man did as he was asked. It really was a pity Von Ratched hadn't got his hands on him when he was a younger man; healthy though Geezer was in spite of his condition, he was also a fifty-odd-year-old former drunk. Hardly a physically optimal specimen, and the last thing Von Ratched needed was him dying of a heart attack in the middle of an experiment.

He filled a needle with the first of his sera, and knelt on the mat to administer it. At times his height was a disadvantage; even seated, he towered over Geezer. "Give me your arm, and please do not waste both our time by fighting."

Fortunately, Geezer listened, though he eyed Von Ratched like a rabbit the entire time. "This will relax you, and then I will administer the stimulants."

"This won't work." He still genuinely believed it, too.

"We will see about that. Cooperate and you will get a bottle of bourbon. Fight this and you will get nothing but a headache." Even Von Ratched was capable of positive reinforcement at times. He'd never offer this to Lorna, though; Geezer had merely been a drunk, whereas she had been a legitimate alcoholic.

That bribe seemed to do the trick. The man willingly laid back on the mat, staring up at the ceiling, and his tension drained as the drug did its work. This was a mixture of Dilauded and a few things of Von Ratched's own concoction; normally he didn't worry about any pain his tests inflicted on the subject, but in this case, outright agony might prove detrimental.

It took only ten minutes for those faded eyes to glaze over, and then came the rest of the drugs, methodical and at precise intervals. A skimming of his mind proved he was as relaxed as he looked, and Von Ratched took it as his cue for further exploration.

Interestingly, Geezer had become attached to Katje in a distinctly fatherly way, and Von Ratched wished he hadn't promise her safety in exchange for Hansen's cooperation. Whatever else he might be, he was a man of his word; unless Hansen screwed up, DaVries was indeed safe. Of course, Geezer didn't need to know that.

It took surprisingly little time to find it: the switch, the part of Geezer's mind that controlled -- and was controlled by -- his ability. Flipping it took rather longer, but he was nothing if not patient, and eventually it worked.

He stepped back as soon as the seizure started, clicking a stopwatch and watching curiously as the man flopped like a fish. It did indeed resemble a grand mal seizure, so much so that even he might have been initially fooled by it, had he not known what Geezer was. It went on for almost ten minutes, too; if they were all like this, he had no idea how Geezer was still alive. That would warrant more testing later.

He stood still a full minute after it ended, and when he knelt again he took the man's vitals before administering the final injection. Interesting -- according to all the results, Geezer was clinically dead, yet he still breathed. Yes, that definitely required more testing.

"All right, Mister Geezer. You will now tell me what you saw."

His voice was so slurred that at first Von Ratched had a difficult time understanding him. "Winter," he mumbled. "Snow. Death. You don't. All survive. Mountain and Garden, they live, we live, not all."

He trailed off a while, his breathing ragged, and Von Ratched waited patiently. "Trapped. Here, there. Freezing and burning and bullets. Knife in your chest, but you don't die. Not yet. She is your death, but not yet. Not until. It comes."

"Until what comes?"

Geezer moaned, a sound not of pain, but of terror. "It. Angel, but not. Thing. Snow and death. Before that, war, too much. Storm across the world. Your fault."

His words faltered again, this time because he'd lapsed into total unconsciousness. Well, that was cryptic and rather unhelpful -- it seemed Geezer was telling the truth when he said his visions made little sense. Still, this was promising: it could be done again, perhaps with better results.

He let Geezer sleep it off while he tidied up, pensive. Doubtless the 'she' was Lorna, if only because she was the only one who had even a theoretical capability of killing him. The rest was of more immediacy and importance: he had indeed thought about how they were to get through the winter, now that he no longer had the backing of the government. From the sound of that bizarre prophecy, he would have to go a step or two further in his preparations. Geezer was right -- he wasn't stupid. He knew that once winter set in, the Institute would be a prison for everyone. It would be fun for no one, but that hardly mattered.

Once Geezer had been bundled off to a recovery room, Von Ratched went to inspect his own office. The new carpeting had been put in two days ago -- he could return to his own space, and give Grieggs hers. This was where he would meet with Lorna; he wanted to see how she would react to coming back here. Though he would never admit it even to himself, she'd startled him yesterday, and he wanted to keep her too off-kilter to try it again. 

Whose mind had she read to discover his first name? Even few of the staff knew it. It could not have been his own, whatever she said -- he was telling the truth when he told her she wouldn't be flippant with him, had she truly seen his mind. Were she to know what really went on in there, she'd bolt again, suicide or not.

He made some coffee before sending for her, curious to see what she would be like today. The change in her he'd observed on their last meeting was…worrisome. His scare tactic had indeed backfired -- horribly -- and now that he couldn't get into her mind, he genuinely wondered what he was to do about it. It was certainly going to be a challenge; fortunately, he loved challenges.

He was amused, though not surprised, to find she'd tightly braided her hair. She scowled at him, and if his office unnerved her, she hid it well. Interesting. Until now her body language had been easy to read, even without consulting her thoughts, but now she gave nothing away. It was impressive, if also annoying.

Once again she didn't say anything, though when he poured her coffee, she looked at it like he was trying to poison her, even after he poured himself some from the same pot. "What's your angle now?" she asked suspiciously, when he set the cup on the end-table nearest her.

"I am trying to be polite," he said. "A concept with which you seem to be unfamiliar."

Lorna gave him a level stare that wasn't quite a glare. Her eyes were still like green ice, he noticed, and that troubled him. "I know," she said flatly, "and it's even creepier than when you're being an arsehole. What is it you want now? If you're after dissecting me, I'd like to finish digesting my breakfast first."

No, he definitely hadn't broken her belligerence, and he was oddly pleased by that. She wouldn't be Lorna without it. "Drink your coffee," he ordered, and of course she didn't. He folded his hands, and tried not to sigh. "I am going to begin a series of tests on Duncan soon. As I do not want a repeat of the _last_ procedure I performed on him, I will allow you to be there. These tests will doubtless be painful, but they will do him no permanent harm." He didn't mention that he planned to drug her as well as Duncan. Let that be a surprise.

The look she gave him was both suspicious and faintly, almost disturbingly predatory. "Why?" she demanded. "You just want to use it as a threat, don't you? Show me what you can do worse if I step out've line?"

"Grammatically mangled a sentence though that is, the answer is yes -- in part. I believe your presence will calm the beast in Duncan, so to speak. I will not harm him, but it might."

Von Ratched watcher her closely, intrigued. Her carefully-cultivated blankness was fracturing ever so slightly, the harsh lines of her face softening almost imperceptibly. He wondered just how far she would be willing to compromise. Doubtless her first instinct was outright refusal, but Lorna was stubborn, not stupid. She couldn't fully protect Duncan, but if she cooperated, she _could_ aid him. Her automatic defiance and rational practicality warred in those uncanny green eyes, along with a healthy dose of doubt. However, in the end it was the predator that won.

"Fine," she said, and the threat in the word had to be purely unconscious. How very curious. Had she deliberately threatened him he would have thought it bravado, but as it was -- she truly did mean to kill him, didn't she? It wasn't just idle fantasy. He wondered how patient she was capable of being, before she finally snapped and tried. It would be unfortunate when she did, because he'd have to punish her for it, and frankly, he didn't know how. And as creative as he could be in that area, he found he didn't want to have to think about it. Not with her.

"Good. If you will not drink your coffee, I will ask you to unbraid your hair."

Now that was interesting. For the barest trace of an instant, panic joined the coldness in her eyes. He ought to have been glad something could unnerve her, yet for some reason it unnerved _him_. "No," she said. "I know what you do that, _Doctor_ , and it's hardly necessary, is it? I know you're a control freak, but sure God, aren't there limits? You got as positive an answer as you're ever likely to get from me." The panic was gone, having morphed into her more familiar state of barely-controlled anger. That he could deal with.

"Has it not occurred to you that I simply enjoy brushing your hair?" he asked.

Lorna quirked an eyebrow. "No," she said bluntly. "It's a power-trip and I know it. A person'd have to be thicker than pig shit not to grasp that."

"Perhaps it is, as you say, a power-trip," he said, rising to fetch the brush, "however, I do also enjoy it. You do have lovely hair, Lorna. Also, I would not try to throw that mug at me, if I were you. It would do nothing save make a mess, and I just had this carpet replaced."

When he turned back, she did indeed have a hand hovering over her coffee-cup. She didn't even have the grace to look embarrassed. "You're the one that put it next to me," she said, unrepentant. 

"That gives you no right to fling it at me. I am not letting you out until you let me brush your hair."

Now fight and flight were warring in her eyes, though her expression was almost composed. How he wished he could read her mind at that moment.

To his surprise, a kind of steely resolution took over her face, and she threw the long braid over the back of the couch. What was she playing at now?

He said nothing, but unfastened the rubber band at the end of her hair and unwove it. He wasn't kidding; he did enjoy this, and not just because he liked studying her reaction. Lorna's hair was fine and quite glossless, tending toward wispy flyaways, but it was very soft, and he was a tactile man. DaVries was the one with shampoo-commercial hair, but Lorna's was so very long. It was still damp when he unbraided it, and he was careful not to pull as he worked it loose.

"Does it ever bother you, that you're so creepy?" she asked, when it seemed she could bear silence no longer.

"It is not my fault you find me so," he said, letting a silver-threaded strand coil around his fingers.

"Bullshit. If you ever ran into someone you didn't give the creeps, you'd prob'ly throw a righ' strop."

He didn't dignify that with a response. Instead he said, "Your accent gets thicker when you are distressed. If you truly intend to try to pretend equanimity in my presence, you will have to work on that."

"Marbhfháisc ort."

"Back to Irish, I see. You've gone so very cold, Lorna. Did what I do upset you so much?"

She tensed visibly. "Do I even need to bother answering that?" It was obvious she wanted to go off on a complete tirade, but somehow she stopped herself, and Von Ratched wasn't sure he liked that. A Lorna with proper self-control could be a dangerous thing. She had more power than she realized, and he would rather she not figure that out. Possibly ever. Teaching her greater control still had to remain very basic, too; he'd hoped she would prove more amenable with time, but that seemed unlikely.

"I truly am sorry, Lorna. I know you think me a monster, and in most ways you are right, but I do not make a habit of things like that." Not on the unwilling, anyway. DaVries had certainly enjoyed it.

"Why not?" she asked, curiosity tingeing her revulsion. The fact that she found even his proximity repulsive was going to be a major problem. "I wouldn't think you'd care."

Von Ratched sighed, his hands stilling for a moment. She had every right to have so low an opinion of him, but it was still irksome. "The pain I cause is in the name of research. When I hurt you people outside of an experiment, it is because I must teach you obedience in a fashion you will remember. That was my intent for what I did to you, but I dislike using such a method as punishment. Believe me or not, some things are beneath me. Even if I could do such a thing to you again, I would not."

He didn't expect her to buy a word of it, but it was the truth. She sat quiet a very long while as he resumed brushing her hair, and he wondered what was going on in that head of hers. At least she was giving his words some thought. "I didn't think you thought of us as people," she said at last.

_I don't_ , he thought, but he knew better than to say it aloud. Lorna was a person, and by extent he was forced to regard Duncan as one as well -- and to be honest, it bothered him in both cases. He didn't _want_ to want her, but it seemed he couldn't help it. And that bothered him, too. "I am capable of making exceptions," he said. "On occasion. There. I will summon you and Duncan tomorrow."

She tried not to be obvious about hurrying out, and he shook his head, wondering why he did this to himself. All he was doing was alienating her further, yet for once in his life he couldn't help himself. And he didn't like that at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd forgot how long this chapter was. Hooray for prophetic gibberish. Sorry, Von Ratched, but most of the shit Geezer saw won't show up until the next book. Oops.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Somehow, Lorna managed to avoid being sick on her way back to her room. Ratiri was out, probably with Doctor Hansen, which was just as well. Some alone-time was definitely needed.

She went into the bathroom and stared at her reflection. Her hair was mostly dry, and she ran her fingers along a section of it, wondering if she should get her hands on something sharp and hack it all off. The only time she'd ever had a significant amount of it cut was in prison, and at the time she'd sworn she'd never do it again, but now…well, it was tempting.

_It wouldn't make him leave you alone. He'd just find some other way to freak you out._

Probably true, but it was still tempting. The bastard was making her hate her own hair, and it was likely only going to get worse.

She grabbed a handful of it and held it out. The grey had advanced noticeably in the weeks since she'd come here, threaded among the black. It was the only really pretty feature she had, and she was starting to loathe it. Damn Von Ratched.

Her eyes went back to her reflection. Objectification was a brand-new thing to her, because she just wasn't the kind of woman any normal man objectified. Too short, light crow's-feet beside her eyes, a smattering of thread-fine broken capillaries across her cheeks. Skin that had seen a lot of weather and not a lot of sunscreen, a nose that would have been nice if it hadn't been broken and inexpertly re-set. Green eyes, yes, but even she found them uncanny, and so far almost everyone else she'd ever met had, too. A couple of the roadies hadn't been able to stand her looking at them. Even with all that, she wasn't an ugly woman by any manner of means, but she was a far cry from someone like, say, Katje. Her facial structure itself was decent enough; she could have been pretty, given the chance, but she'd been a junkie for far too long to escape the lifestyle unmarked. Physically she just wasn't what she could have been, had her life been different.

What did Von Ratched _see_ in her? Aside from their shared curse, they had nothing at all in common -- everything one was, the other was not. At the time, she hadn't believed Hansen when he said Von Ratched might develop a real fixation on her, but she was very much afraid he had. Terrible though it was, she wished he'd find another telepath, preferably one who didn't find him as horrifying as she did.

She shuddered, wove her hair back into a braid, and tied it in a knot behind her head. There had to be _someone_ she could confide in, but Ratiri would wind up furious on her behalf, and Katje probably wouldn't understand. Now there was a woman who had turned objectification into a highly lucrative art form, but Lorna would shoot herself before sinking to that level. Yet Katje didn't consider it sinking at all.

Christ, she didn't know how much longer she could handle this. Ratiri had to be kept safe no matter what he said, but how much longer could she manage it? How much longer until her mind gave up and snapped?

She didn't know, but unless she killed Von Ratched in a hurry, she was afraid she was going to find out.

\----

That evening, the heavy clouds started shedding fine, tiny flakes of snow.

The windows in the newly-renovated Activities Hall were much smaller than the old ones, and the inmates had to crowd around to see the outside.

"Is summer," Katje said, shivering. "How can there be snow?"

"It's Alaska," Geezer said. "Can't count on the weather this far north. August now -- we might wind up snowed in by September."

Several of the staff had drifted over, and even they looked worried. Geezer would bet Von Ratched hadn't said much to them about the coming winter, and most of them were probably city people. If they'd seen real weather, it had been from the safety of houses and apartments, not some building in the middle of nowhere. The implications of that were probably just now sinking in. Good. Let _them_ worry for a change.

"Place was designed all wrong," he mused, making sure they could hear him. "These big rooms'll be impossible to heat when it hits forty below. Sure hope Von Ratched's got a backup plan."

Yep, there was some genuine concern. The more people who doubted the doctor, the better. If he was dealing with the worries of his staff, maybe he'd have less time to devote to torturing the inmates.

Though for now the Activities Hall was warm enough. It still smelled faintly of new paint, which was already getting scrawled on again by the inmates. The ceiling was too high, though, and come deep cold it would be a heat sink. The repaired outer wall was wood, too, not concrete, and probably wasn't as well-insulated as it should be. The staff were hardly going to care if it caused the inmates discomfort, but he was pretty sure they'd pitch a fit if anything fooled with their own quality of life. The thought gave him grim satisfaction.

He looked over at the scrawl-wall. Lorna was there now, ignoring the consternation at the windows. She had a palette next to her, and it looked like she was trying to paint a scene in Ireland, but she wasn't much of an artist. She'd gone even weirder in the last week, and he was uneasy -- of her, and for her. Half the time she managed to act normal -- or normal for her, anyway -- but she couldn't maintain it. A coldness far back in her eyes betrayed her, flaring into something outright murderous whenever Von Ratched's name was mentioned. Nobody had actually seen the bastard since the escape attempt, and Geezer wondered what she'd done to him. What they'd done to each other, since she wouldn't be this way without cause. Whatever had happened, it was something he hadn't foreseen. It meant that she at least didn't seem to care about the weather or its consequences.

He ambled over to her, but she was so intent on her work that he didn't think she even registered his presence. "That home?" he asked.

"It is. Or it's supposed to be. Are we ever to escape this place?"

He was momentarily thrown by her abrupt change of subject, and wondered if he ought to tell her what he'd seen. "Yes," he said quietly. "Dunno when, but…look, don't do anything dumb, okay? I know you wanna kill Von Ratched, but if you try too hard he'll lock you up and never let you out. I know patience isn't your thing, but try."

Now she looked at him, and her eyes made him shiver. "You don't know what you're asking've me. I _am_ being patient, but if I see a chance to off the bastard, I'm taking it. He wants to do more nasty things to Ratiri, and he said he'd let me be there. If he's distracted long enough, he's a dead man."

"And then what?" he asked. "You gonna kill all the staff, too? 'Cause you'd have to. Without him, they've got no reason to stay here. They'd bail and leave us to freeze, if they didn't try to do us in outright. And even with Von Ratched dead, we'd still be stuck here 'til spring."

She went quiet, a dreadful, thoughtful silence. "Maybe I would," she said softly. "God knows plenty've them deserve it."

Geezer went cold. She meant every word of it. "Lorna…don't turn into him," he said, just as quietly. "He's already changed you. He's made you…I dunno, wrong. Don't let him change what you are."

Out of everything he could have said, that startled her. Her eyes went wide, and she set aside her paintbrush. "Is it really that obvious?"

He nodded. "Say you kill him. Say you off him and we all get outta here -- are you really gonna be able to live with yourself, if we have to kill more people to get out? You're not a murderer, Lorna. It'd destroy you."

"So what," she whispered, "I just let him keep on? I just stand aside and let him keep torturing everybody? You want to talk about things I couldn't live with -- I'll not be a coward, Geezer."

"I'm not asking you to be. Fight him all you like, but don't do anything worse, you hear me? Not until we've got a real chance to escape."

She looked deeply unhappy, as he'd known she would. "And you're willing to let him torment you until then?"

"Been through worse," he said grimly, holding up his ruined hands.

"Well, most've the people here haven't. Not even me." She shuddered.

He wasn't getting through to her, but he had to try. "Lorna, I can't tell you the future," he said. "Learned that the hard way. Just…don't try to kill him. If you do, it ends bad."

_You had another fit-thing, didn't you?_ she asked, even more startled.

_I did. Von Bastard's been so busy with you and Ratiri and God knows what else that he missed it._ Don't _go gunning for him. You're fine as long as he doesn't see you as a legitimate threat, but if he does -- well. You don't want that._

 _Can you not tell me why?_ She was anxious now, and hated having to do this to her.

_No. Learned a long time ago that trying to directly change the future almost always backfires. All I can do is advise you, and that's my advice. Listen to it. Please._

She scowled. _You really don't know what you're asking've me._

 _Yes,_ he said, grave. _I do. Believe me._

 _Fine_ , she said, after a very long pause. _But if he hurts me, I'm hurting him back._

That she could probably get away with. Von Ratched was used to it, after all. He'd probably find it suspicious if she didn't.

Lorna followed him back to the window, poking people out of the way until she could see out. The snow wasn't sticking, but it was coming down like anything, a whirling dance of white so thick it was impossible to see more than two feet ahead. If they hadn't been caught after their escape, they'd have frozen to death for sure. Geezer still wasn't grateful, though.

\----

The snow had stopped by nightfall, but a howling wind took its place.

Normally Lorna didn't mind the cold, but even with her scrubs on over her pajamas, she was freezing. The room was poorly heated, the few blankets on the bed not nearly enough, and when she crawled in with Ratiri he hugged her like she was a living hot-water bottle.

"Wish Von Ratched had invested in some space heaters," she grumbled. "I don't want to imagine what it'll be like, come winter."

"Hate to say it, but he'll probably move everyone underground." He was sniffing her hair, but she'd long since ceased finding that odd. It was so instinctual she didn't think he was even aware he was doing it.

"Bloody brilliant. Packed in like that, we'll go mad within a week. Granted," she added, brightening a little, "he might, too. Serve him right."

Ratiri laughed so quietly she felt rather than heard it. "He might wind up scrawling on the walls with the rest of us."

Lorna snickered, but sobered fast. "He told me he wants to do more tests on you, and that he'd let me be there." She shivered, and this time not from the cold. "I want to try something."

"What?" he asked, pulling back enough to try to look at her. It was too dark for them to see each other properly, but maybe his odd senses could perceive her better than she could him.

"I know he'll not give you any painkillers. I want to see if I can take care've that with my telepathy, but you've got to trust me." She didn't need to see him to sense his confusion.

"How?"

"He can make people hurt with his telepathy, right?" she said, burrowing closer to him under the blankets. "That's got to work both ways. I want to see if I can…shut off your ability to feel it, sort've thing, but I won't do it if you don't want me to." She'd be mucking about in his brain, after all; that kind of thing could make a person beyond nervous.

"You wouldn't be taking it on yourself, would you?"

"No." Not unless she had to, but she wasn't about to tell him that, or he might not want her doing this at all. Men could be so pigheaded.

_Pot, this is kettle_ , she thought. _We need to have a discussion about your hue value._

"All right," he said, somewhat reluctantly. "We'll try this, if only because I know you'll give me no peace until we do."

She grinned in the dark. "See? We do understand each other."

He laughed again, and she went to sleep with his heartbeat strong and steady beneath her ear.

\----

_She dreamt of the Garden. This time she was alone here, wandering this vast lawn in the warmth of a summer sunset. This was a place she hadn't seen before: a mountain loomed not far ahead, taller than anything she'd ever seen. Not that that was saying much; neither Ireland nor Britain had anything like real mountains, except for Ben Nevis in Wales. This one was forested in what she thought were fir trees, huge, ancient things that had to have stood for centuries._

_She approached it with a strange, inexplicable sense of joy -- of homecoming. Though the ground grew rocky beneath her bare feet, the stones didn't hurt, and the smell of wood and clean sweet earth wrapped around her like a blanket. It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever known, so lovely it hurt._

_The Lady, she found, was waiting for her under one of the massive trees. Standing, she was even taller than she'd looked the first time Lorna met her, but unlike most tall people, this inhuman woman didn't make her feel small. Though seeing the Lady one-on-one was very different than meeting her in a group -- the aura of power around her was so strong it almost made the air crackle. Her shifting green robe glowed faintly of its own accord, and the light of the sunset sparked red highlights in her dark hair._

_Lorna hesitated, almost afraid to draw close to such power._

_"It is all right, child," the Lady said, her voice still like music. "I will not hurt you."_

_There was something deeply maternal about her, in spite of how very alien she was. Lorna's own mother had been a broken woman long before she died, so none of her children had received much in the way of maternal nurturing. It was, Lorna found, a bittersweet thing._

_The Lady smoothed the hair back from her forehead, her touch at once electric and infinitely comforting. "I will not lie to you, child," she said, her voice tinged with sorrow. "Much horror lies ahead of you, but you will come to this place on Earth, in the end. You and all the others, but your road will be much longer and harsher than theirs. In all that is to come, remember this: I will never abandon you. You will find happiness in the end, though your path to it will be fraught with hardship."_

_Remembrance of Geezer's warning made Lorna shiver. "What's going to happen to me?"_

_"That I cannot tell you. But you are strong, child, more so even than you know. Remember that. Live, and love, and do not ever let anyone make you believe you are less than you are."_

_"I'm not that much to begin with," Lorna said dryly._

_"You are. Far more than you know, but you will learn. Let go of your frozen rage, your need for vengeance. You are a creature of warmth and light. Keep hold of that, and you will save more than just yourself."_

_She bent and kissed Lorna's forehead, and then she was gone, leaving Lorna to explore this strange, lovely place until she woke._

\----

The wind and cold were even worse the next day, but F wing was warm enough. After another sleepless night Von Ratched had everything set up long before dawn, but he gave Duncan and Lorna enough time to eat and bathe before sending for them. Duncan didn't need to pass out from low blood sugar, and nobody needed Lorna griping about being hungry.

Both arrived obviously tired, each with a heavy bathrobe tied securely over their uniforms. It looked like something would have to be done about the heating in the wards. Duncan looked wary, as was only smart, but Lorna…what _did_ she look like now?

Something about her had changed, something invisible and intangible, meaning he couldn't even guess precisely what it was. The coldness had left her eyes, though they were still sharp and watchful, but it was more than that. And yet he didn't know what that 'more' might be.

He put it from his mind for now, to be turned over later. At least she seemed less tense, which he hoped would make her less combative. "Lie down, Duncan," he said, pointing to the table at the center of the room. At least this one was padded, as were the restraints. "I am strapping you down for your own good, so Lorna, don't waste my time trying to interfere."

To his surprise, she didn't. She hovered nearby like a mother hen, a tiny figure in a pale blue bathrobe the size of an overcoat on her, hands curled in the too-long sleeves for warmth. She certainly looked more refreshed than Duncan, though Von Ratched wasn't sure he wanted to know what had put the light in her ungodly eyes. Surely she was up to something, and he didn't want to know about that, either. It said something about the woman, that her cooperation should convince him she was up to no good.

Duncan looked at her, trying not to let on how worried he was. He was losing weight, Von Ratched noted, his cheeks slightly hollow, and he needed a haircut. Perhaps his caloric intake should be upped; for whatever reason, despite his relative lack of exercise, his metabolism was burning through everything he ate with astonishing speed.

Both of them looked rather uneasily at the syringe Von Ratched brought over. "It is only a mild sedative," he said, tying a rubber tube around Duncan's upper arm. "It ought to help with the pain." That wasn't why he was giving it -- he didn't want Duncan fighting too hard -- but it would also act as a mild analgesic.

Lorna gave him a suspicious glance before turning back to Duncan. A very light touch of his mind told Von Ratched they were chattering away at one another telepathically.

_It's all right, allanah. I'm not going anywhere. I'll not let him go too far with this._

Not mother hen, he decided -- mama bear. "I'm sedating you too, Lorna."

Her eyes snapped to him. "That wasn't part've our deal," she said. Interestingly, though, she didn't look ready to attack him.

"Need I remind you that I set the parameters of this deal? It will not render you unconscious, but I am hoping it will keep your telekinesis from going haywire. You can take the sedative, or I can put you back in your room."

She glanced at Duncan again, and with a grimace rolled up her sleeve. Her arm was thin but wiry with muscle, and he wondered if she'd been exercising when he wasn't looking.

Her posture relaxed a little, and he attached an array of vital monitors to Duncan while she watched him like a hawk. He wondered how a lesser mortal could handle her stare for any length of time. There was an intensity to it he'd never seen in anyone else. "I would step back, if I were you."

"Sod off. I will if I need to."

"Suit yourself." He picked up a small plastic device that looked more like a cell phone than anything, and pressed a button. It emitted a sound too high-pitched for him and Lorna to hear, but Duncan most certainly did. He flinched, the beep of his cardio monitor increasing. Hmm. It seemed he really did have animalistic senses, not just a feral instinct. Another push of the button drove the sound to a higher pitch, and this time he let out a distinctly canine whine. Already he was sweating, his blood pressure soaring along with his pulse -- and then both dropped, and he fell silent. He was still uncomfortable, still cringing, but no longer in much pain.

Von Ratched glanced sharply at Lorna, but she hadn't moved. She just stood staring at Duncan with a ferocity that almost burned, so completely focused he doubted she was aware of anything else. "Lorna, what are you doing?"

"I'm not interfering with your test, am I?"

"Not yet, but you have not answered my question."

"I’m trying to block his pain, all right? You can give it, so I'm thinking I can take it away."

He looked fully at her, intrigued. "Quite the little scientist, aren't you? How did you come up with that one?"

"Just because I'm not a genius doesn't mean I'm an idiot," she retorted. "Will you get on with it?"

He would, but not as intended. This was much more interesting, and he could always complete this test properly later. Now he wanted to see just how far she could go with this. He increased the volume, and added a searing light from the overhead lamp. This would be purely controlled by outside stimuli rather than telepathy; he didn't want to interfere with Lorna's work.

Duncan's pulse and blood pressure momentarily spiked again, but once more evened out quite rapidly. Lorna wasn't even sweating yet, either. Another increase in volume, and another, but this time his levels remained even. She was surprisingly good at this for a beginner -- or so Von Ratched thought, until he realized she was cheating. Now she was sweating, and had gone rather pale: she wasn't blocking Duncan's pain anymore, she was taking it on herself. If he didn't know any better, he'd think her an outright masochist.

Somehow, he didn't want to keep pushing. The sight of her pain was disturbingly unpleasant. Still, he'd started this experiment, and he never cut one off for anything short of cardiac arrest. He'd keep this up until she cried uncle or passed out, whichever came first.

Dazed though he was, Duncan eventually figured out what she was doing. "Lorna, stop," he rasped, but unsurprisingly, she ignored him. Honestly, she was so focused she probably didn't _hear_ him, so he tried again. "Von Ratched, stop this. I know you know what she's doing."

"Of course I do. However, she started this, and we must see it through to the end. I will give her a painkiller when we are done, if that will appease you."

"It won't," he growled -- actually growled. Yes, that inner animal really had latched onto her, in a way the man had not. He was as protective of her as she was of him, but it would almost certainly kill for her. How interesting.

Up the volume went again, and Lorna went so pale she would surely pass out soon. Von Ratched didn't like watching her, but Ratiri-the-animal couldn't stand it, for he fought so hard he pulled his arm out of one restraint. That he could manage that even while sedated bore contemplation. "Will you _stop_ it," he snarled, his eyes wild. "You've proved your point, you bastard. You know she won't fold on her own."

"Which means I will know exactly how much she can handle while still remaining conscious," Von Ratched said, with a hint of asperity.

They didn't need to argue further. Lorna chose that moment to collapse, and he only just managed to catch her before she could hit her head. He picked up a stethoscope and knelt to listen to her heart and lungs. How very odd -- her pulse wasn't elevated at all. How had she managed _that_?

He shook his head, and administered a painkiller that would keep her from wishing she was dead when she woke. "That animal of yours chose a strange person to fixate on," he said, standing and looking at Duncan. "She does not need your protection, and in time I believe she will come to resent it."

Duncan had flopped back down on the table, but he remained tense. "No, she won't. Are you done here?"

"For now. I will have lunch sent to your room. I would suggest you refrain from attempting to attack me when I set you loose. Tame that animus or it will take you over."

"Wouldn't you love that," Duncan muttered. His face was almost grey, his hair damp with sweat.

"And what, precisely, do you mean by that?" Von Ratched asked, releasing his bound arm. Unsurprisingly, he'd quite mangled the wrist of his other.

"Be a lot less trouble if I couldn't think for myself, wouldn't I?" His voice was slurring with exhaustion.

"Perhaps, but you would be far less interesting. And if I were to render you a permanent mental beast, Lorna really would try to kill me. Count yourself lucky you're the only means I have of controlling her."

Duncan didn't respond, nor did he fight when he was given another sedative. Von Ratched shifted him to a gurney and fetched one for Lorna, who was still very much unconscious.

He paused, and looked at her. Her dependence on Duncan was definitely working against him, but as of yet, he didn't know what to do about it. If he severed their mental connection it might drive them both insane, but if he left it, it was only going to entrench itself further. He couldn't even get away with killing Duncan.

With a shake of his head, he delivered the pair to Grieggs, and went back to his apartment for an early lunch. It was time to take another look at what was going on in the rest of the world.

What he saw was not what he had expected. The undeclared war against the so-called cursed was collapsing, simply because their numbers were swelling too fast to be kept up with.

To his amusement, he found a press conference with General Andrews. The man was once again in full possession of himself, every inch the hardened military commander, and Von Ratched wondered what he'd told his superiors about his trip to the Institute. Almost certainly not what had really happened.

"Why isn't the military dealing with this anymore?" someone asked.

Andrews looked both uncomfortable and annoyed. "We have too many of them in our own ranks," he said. "And those are just the ones we know of. There are people out there who can effectively control their curses, and we have too few people capable of identifying them."

"What do you have to say about the rumors that you're executing your cursed personnel?"

"That's total slander," Andrews snapped, and his vehemence told Von Ratched he was lying through his teeth. 

For the first time, visiting the outside world sounded like an appealing idea, but the inmates could not be left unattended. The thought of the military falling apart was viciously satisfying, something that ought to be witnessed firsthand, but there was no feasible way to do it. What a pity.

He changed channels and found footage of a rally on the National Mall, a vast crowd of people holding homemade signs. They were chanting something unintelligible, their faces so earnest in the sunlight that it was rather sickening.

Well. For once in his life, his predictions seemed incorrect. If society was going to fall apart at the seams, it wasn't going to do so as he'd thought. At least it was likely he'd be left alone in his isolated little corner of Alaska. The military was too busy tearing itself to bits to bother him again.

No one would interfere now. And that was exactly how he liked it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of course things could get worse for them. Of course they could.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

For the entirety of the next week, it was Wrigley who disappeared into F wing. And terrible though Lorna felt about it, she was glad to have a break.

The sun returned, and again they were let outside. It was much colder, though; there would be no garden this year, and she hoped they wouldn't still be here when spring rolled around again.

Still, she dug at the plots, growing so warm she could shed her heavy coat at times. Her skin tanned ever deeper, and little by little became almost relaxed. The sun, though it gave no warmth, reminded her of her recent dream, and brought her a peace she wouldn't have thought possible. It wouldn't last, since Von Ratched would send for her and Ratiri again sooner or later, but she'd savor it while she could.

While she didn't consciously pass it to Ratiri, he received a great deal by osmosis. His face lost its pinched, wary look, and he even smiled a few times, as his shovel thudded into the ground with hers. Lorna had discovered long ago that sometimes mindless physical exercise could be a good thing, and it seemed to be helping him as much as her.

She was sweating now, though it was cold enough to see her breath even in the direct sunshine. Her bangs were sticking to her face, her muscles were burning with effort, and she was almost happy. The jacket lay forgotten on the ground, and she'd rolled the sleeves of her smock up to her shoulders. Her brown arms grew darker by the hour, all lean, corded muscle, and she finally felt the satisfaction that came with actually _doing_ something. She wasn't the kind of person who could sit idle for very long, and she'd done far too much of that since coming here.

Katje, not far away, looked rather less enthusiastic, but when they'd taken a break earlier Lorna made her a crown of wildflowers. It sat on her golden head like she was a fairy queen, and Hansen definitely appreciated it. He kept casting her glances that he probably thought were subtle, but couldn’t have been more obvious if he'd tried. It was kind of adorable, honestly, though Ratiri just rolled his eyes.

"Kid couldn't bluff to save his life," he muttered, wiping his forehead on his sleeve.

Lorna snorted. "And you could? Tell me, how come Katje didn't snare you as soon as you arrived?"

He drove his shovel into the tough sod with a grunt. "Not my type," he said. "Yeah, she's gorgeous, but she's just not…."

"Not Katherine?" Lorna offered.

"Exactly. You never saw anyone after Liam, did you?"

She snorted again, turning back to her shoveling. "Never saw anyone before him, either. He was the first bloke who didn't consider me…well, another bloke. I never spent much time around other girls, so I never really learned to act like one, but he didn't care. Said he didn't want a princess forever checking her makeup. Bit unfair, really, since I might've liked it if I had the chance, but whatever."

"Katherine could never abide the stuff, though God knows her mother tried. All while we were dating, that damn woman said she'd never get a 'real man' if she didn't make some effort with her appearance."

Lorna stabbed her shovel down and leaned on the handle, staring at him. " _Why?_ You're a mother's wet dream." She paused. "That didn't come out right."

He actually laughed. "No, no it didn't. Unfortunately, racism is still alive and well in Britain. Her mother _hated_ me, and about disowned her when we got engaged. A Hindu wedding ceremony is basically a week-long party, and we could hardly get her to stay a day. I think _my_ mother was ready to kill her. They got into a fantastic row, and that was the last we ever saw of her."

Lorna digested this. "What a flipping cunt," she said at last, and that only made Ratiri laugh harder.

"An accurate description if ever there was one. Family's hugely important in India -- I think my mother thought she was insane."

"Nah, I'm sticking with cunt. Granted, my da would've shot you, but that's just because he was a right areshole."

"I don't think I'd bother asking anything of parents, this time around."

He froze, and she gave him a startled look. _This time around?_ she asked.

His face flushed, until he was approximately the hue of a brick. _Um…well, yes. Look, forget I said anything._

She shook her head. _Uh-uh. D'you mean what I think you mean?_

_That depends on whether or not you want me to._

One corner of her mouth lifted in a half-smile. _I'll think about that. Once you’ve figured out whether or not this is just because we're always under each other's feet._

Yes, maybe there was a blush. Well. This was an interesting turn of events. She'd be lying if she said she hadn't fancied him a little, but anyone would. He looked like an Indian Clark Gable, for God's sake. But this…well, they certainly had enough time to see where it went.

She full-on smiled as she went back to work, wondering if this was what it was like to feel like a teenage girl.

\----

Ratiri wasn't going to lie: he was panicking a little. The two of them were stuck in such close quarters so often that he hadn't intended to say a damn thing, ever. God knew their lives were complicated enough, but she'd snuck up on him. Two days ago he'd abruptly realized that if they ever escaped, he never wanted to live without her -- and that was his wish, not the animal within him.

It scared him, too, though there was little logical reason for that. Neither one was going anywhere, and Von Ratched already used them to control one another. Logically, their outward lives wouldn't change. There was just the rather large problem of whether or not Lorna would be too awkward, if he said anything. From her little smile, he thought he didn't need two worry on that score. It wasn't any kind of grand romance, but neither of them was that kind of person. He'd find such a thing uncomfortable, and Lorna would probably laugh at it.

No, this was good. This was _real_ , not something out of a storybook. They had -- maybe literally -- all the time to see where it went, since they were so thoroughly stuck here. No need to rush anything.

He just hoped it would be a while before Von Ratched figured it out. What he might use it for, Ratiri didn't want to know.

\----

Von Ratched was far too busy to give much thought to the inmates outside of F wing. When he'd finished with Phil he sent for Wrigley, his second most dangerous patient.

He couldn't pin as much blame on the kid as he could on Lorna. Not only was the boy mildly tranquilized during the escape, he'd been a little slow to begin with, and remained traumatized about what he'd accidentally done to his girlfriend.

And he offered a refreshing lack of resistance, sitting hunched on the exam table. His thick glasses magnified his eyes to something unnaturally huge, his tow-colored hair a mess. A tall lad, skinny as a beanpole, who twitched occasionally. His records indicated he had mild cerebral palsy, which slightly complicated Von Ratched's ability to experiment on him.

That didn't matter right now, though. For the present, the kid's power had to be leashed by something other than drugs, a procedure that was in itself an experiment. Von Ratched had never tried this before, and was immensely interested in discovering whether or not it would work. Either way, it would tell him something about how these abilities worked.

"Relax, Wrigley," he said. "I'm not going to hurt you. I know you could not help most of what you did during the escape." He knew damn well that some of it was deliberate, but the boy really didn't have much control over his ability.

Of course Wrigley didn't believe him, but that was only to be expected. No matter -- he really wasn't out to hurt the boy, not this time.

"Just sit still. This should not take long."

_The boy's mind was a confused jumble, and not just from the sedatives -- he really was a little slow. Like Geezer, his memories were fuzzy things, often indistinct, though his discovery of his ability was unfortunately clear. His girlfriend had been a rather pretty brunette before he'd accidentally set her on fire, and her screams still rang in his head every night. He was naturally a very gentle soul, which made it all the worse for him. If this procedure succeeded, he'd probably be grateful, if he knew it had been done. If all went well, he wouldn't._

 _Von Ratched's intent was to make him forget he_ had _the ability -- make him forget everything that had happened since he manifested it. It would be a drastic excision of memory, one that might damage him, but it was worth the risk. If it worked, Von Ratched would keep the boy in isolation and tell him he was in a real hospital. If it didn't work…well, that would be unfortunate, but it would at least supply some interesting data._

_Deeper into Wrigley's mind he went, back to the days before his pyrokinesis made its appearance, and carefully wiped everything that had come after. This wasn't the first time he'd taken so much of a person's memory, but in those cases he'd hardly cared how much damage he caused. This had all the precision of conventional brain surgery._

_Before he finished, he gently eased Wrigley to sleep. He'd monitor the kid's dreams for a while, adjusting if necessary, and see what happened when Wrigley woke._

When he was finished, he took the boy to a room that greatly resembled an average hospital room. The walls were a soft tan rather than white, with a standard adjustable bed. No television or window, but odds were good Wrigley wouldn't notice. He had a severe allergy to peanuts, and Von Ratched would tell him he'd accidentally ingested something with a trace amount of nut. If his ability remained dormant, he would be convinced he'd signed on for a long-term study. If not, he'd have to go into a coma for a while, so Von Ratched could analyze the result.

The boy's vitals remained steady, his neurological results consistent with someone in deep sleep. Now all they could do was wait.

Wait he did, for what seemed an interminable amount of time, jotting down notes in a small spiral notebook. It was three in the morning before Wrigley woke, blinking dazedly. He opened his mouth to speak --

\-- and the cardio monitor burst into flames. _Damn._

Von Ratched immediately severed his consciousness again, and doused the flames with a fire extinguisher. The stench of burnt plastic filled the room, stinging his sinuses and coating the back of his throat. The monitor sizzled slightly as the white foam coated it, and Von Ratched gave an irritated sigh. So much for _that_ idea -- but it told him something about these abilities. He would have to repeat this trial with other subjects, and see of he obtained the same results. Meanwhile, it was time to adjust his theory about these gifts.

He left Wrigley to sleep, and returned to his apartment. Its calm soothed his annoyance and sharpened his curiosity. After fixing himself a gin and tonic, he took a notebook from the shelves.

_These abilities appear to be as intrinsic as I suspected. Subject 27 retained his even when I forced him to forget he had it. Those of us who control ours would appear to do so through willpower, with little to no organic assistance. They may be manipulated by outside sources, but my results with Wrigley would indicate they cannot be turned off by simple manipulation. I will work with him further, and repeat the experiment on several subjects, but I believe this is why I failed to shut off Lorna's telekinesis. If we do not use these abilities, they use us._

He set aside his pen and sipped his drink, the bitter gin washing away the unpleasant taste of plastic. Quantifying this anomaly looked more difficult than ever. While he detested the word 'magic', it remained the only term that applied. He'd known for years these abilities were not genetic, and that according to science they were impossible, but in all his weeks here he'd made no headway in divining the cause, the source. Perhaps he needed to cease being so careful with all his subjects. Perhaps it was time to sacrifice a few.

\----

Both Lorna and Ratiri slept like the dead, and when they woke, it was to the unpleasant discovery that Von Ratched had emerged from his lair. The fact that they'd all known it would happen sooner or later made it no less unnerving, since there was no way of knowing who he'd go after next.

It should have been amusing, how small everyone in the cafeteria tried to make themselves, but there was nothing amusing about Von Ratched. His eyes scanned the echoing room, lingering on no one, and that only made the collective tension worse. It was like a horrible game of roulette.

Lorna shivered. It was damn cold in here, and she wasn't the only one wearing her bathrobe like a coat. The concrete walls leeched all heat from the air and she found herself thinking of her half-sister's home in Ireland. It was always warm there, whatever the weather, and often overrun with children. Her four nieces and nephews had friends over more often than not, especially during the summer holidays, when the windows were open wide on all but the chilliest nights. They adored their Aunt Lorna, who sanctioned things their mother would never dream of allowing. Hell, half the time she instigated it. Thirty-three though she was, she was still new to the whole 'responsible adult' thing, and frankly she hadn't been very good at it. The memory made her so homesick she could almost smell the clean Irish air, rather than the aroma of stale food that permeated the cafeteria.

She was so lost in thought that Ratiri kicked her in the ankle. _We're getting stared at. I think this might be a bad day to be us._

Somehow she avoided glancing in Von Ratched's direction, but she couldn't help frowning. She was not in the mood to deal with his bullshit today -- she wanted to go back outside, to work with Ratiri in the fierce, cold sunshine. While she couldn't exactly pretend she was free out there, at least she could enjoy being out of this godforsaken building. 

Peace, she told herself, but it didn't work. Already she was angry, and the bastard hadn't even said a word to her.

Beside her, Ratiri shifted uneasily, and she looked at him. _What?_ she asked.

_His aura's…different._ All the strain, the worry, was back in his face, and Lorna silently cursed Von Ratched with every invective she knew in any language. Ratiri had been as close to relaxed as she these last few days, and all in an instant that was gone.

_How?_

_It's got red in it._

Red, so far as she knew, visually signified someone was pissed off. Ratiri had said there were dozens of gradations of each color, all signifying something different, and even he hadn't figured out what all of them meant. _Christ. If he tries to take it out on us, I swear I'll bite him._

_Lorna, you don't get it. He never has color in his aura. Ever. Even when you attacked him last, it only wound up with grey pain. Something's seriously wrong with him._

_You mean, more than usual?_ She guzzled her tea, now outright scowling.

_A lot more than usual. We might be in serious trouble._

 _If we are, then so is he_. Lorna could match anyone temper for temper, and if Von Ratched thought he was going to take it out on them, she'd gladly make his day even worse. Even if it meant she'd be in a lot of pain later.

Sure enough, as soon as breakfast was over, the bastard came to their table. "Lorna, I would like to see you in my office," he said, and she couldn't help but glare at him.

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, _Mother_. Allanah, I'll see you later." It was a promise to Ratiri and a threat to Von Ratched.

She followed him into the relatively less chilly hallways, as always having to jog to keep up. Ratiri automatically shortened his stride so she didn't have to do that, but of course that would never occur to Von Arsehole here. "So what's this about?" she asked, not bothering to hide her annoyance.

"Duncan," he said, shooing her into his office. "And how unfortunately…attached…you've grown."

Warning bells went off like a symphony of air-raid sirens in her head. What? "The hell?" she demanded, crossing her arms. After the chill of the cafeteria it was almost too warm in here, though her mounting fury wasn't helping. Was he really going to waste her time like this?

Von Ratched shut the door, his expression extremely odd as he turned to face her, and she wished she had Ratiri's gift with auras. "I am sending you back to room with DaVries," he said, and there was an undercurrent of viciousness in his voice.

"No."

That single word caught him off-guard to an extent that almost made her smile. "What?"

"I said no," she repeated flatly. "Ratiri and I are sticking exactly as we are. I've conceded a lot, Doctor, but I'll not cave on this. Try to force it and I'll make your life so much worse than hell." Weirdly, there was something almost happy in this anger, and that made no sense whatsoever. She ought to be panicking, and some faint recess of her brain wondered why she wasn't. "You think I was bad before -- I could be so much worse. And this time you couldn't get in my head to stop me."

He'd gone completely still, his expression unreadable, and Lorna wondered if anyone had ever threatened him so bluntly. His eyes were like ice, his whole posture so rigid she wondered if he was actually going to hit her. Jesus, what crawled up his arse and died? And yet he didn't say anything -- probably, she thought, because he knew she was right.

"I could kill him," he said at last, very softly. "You know that."

"I'd kill you," she retorted. "And _you_ know _that_. Christ, why d'you care? Does the thought've anyone in this hellhole actually being _content_ really offend you so much? I knew you were a twat, but even I didn't think you were that petty."

A vein was actually twitching in his forehead. She hadn't thought that could happen in real life. "You know nothing, Lorna Donovan."

"Then either enlighten me, or let me out. If you really feel the need to fuck with someone's life, pick another bloody target. I. Will. Not. Let. You." She drew herself up to what passed for her full height. "You need a life, Doctor. Maybe you should work on that."

Still he didn't hit her, though he looked more than ever like he wanted to. Lorna wondered what it would take to drive him to actual violence, and then wondered why she thought the idea was anything short of suicidal.

Von Ratched was quiet for nearly a full minute, just staring at her, but she was still too angry for it to make her more than a little uneasy. Her rage was so strong it made her skin prickle, sharpening her already keen vision, but she kept a tight rein on it. She'd promised both Geezer and the Lady she wouldn't try to kill Von Ratched, and it was a promise she meant to keep, however difficult that might be.

"Lorna, I did not mean for you to grow so attached to him," he said at last. "What I did to him is something I have never before tried on a human subject. For all I know, his altered DNA might start to break down. He could die within months."

She felt the blood drain from her face, but her eyes narrowed. "You'd better make sure he doesn't," she said. "I’m only cooperating because've him. Anything happens to him -- _anything_ \-- and you'll see just how horrible I can be. You've no idea yet how miserable I can make your life."

Dammit, she couldn't let her dread take her over, couldn't let it kill the wrath that kept her afloat. Odds were good Von Ratched was lying, that he was trying to lay groundwork that would allow him to kill Ratiri without her automatically blaming him. Well, she wasn't going to buy it. Even if Ratiri did die as the result of whatever was done to him, it would still be Von Ratched's fault.

He stepped forward, invading her personal space to a degree he had to know she wouldn't like, but she refused to retreat. She wasn't about to do anything he might construe as weakness, no matter how unnerved his proximity made her. She didn't know what to make of the way he was looking at her -- all she knew was that she didn't like it. Anger, of course, and something creepily close to possessiveness, but he had to be smart enough to realize she had him at an impasse. He of all people would know what she was capable of with her curse, and by now he had to realize how much damage she was willing to do, if pushed to it. Lorna had sworn she wouldn't try to kill him, but if anything happened to Ratiri, she had no reason to keep that promise. Without concern for his safety, there was no reason for her to cooperate.

Once again Von Ratched was quiet, and she suspected his silence was calculated to unsettle her. Well, fuck him. He was the one who had given her something to fight for -- why the hell would he try to take it away? He _knew_ her, for God's sake, had been around her long enough to know what would happen if he took away the only thing she truly cared about.

"Well?" she said eventually. "Are you going to say anything else, or will you sit there and try to stare me out've countenance until hell freezes over?"

"You have not won this, Lorna," he said, and his tone chilled her. "You will get what you want for now, but do not expect it to last."

"You'd better make sure it does, or I'll make your life worse than hell, _Von Ratched,_ " she retorted. "For however long it lasts. I'm not afraid to die here, if it means I can take you with me. Don't fuck with me, arsehole. Ratiri's a good person, but you know what? _I'm not_. And you don't want to find out how nasty I can be."

She tried to brush past him, but he grabbed her arm. "Watch yourself, Lorna Donovan. This is not over."

"No," she snarled, "it's not. And it won't be, so long as you're alive."

He let her go, and she stormed out into the hallway. Who did he think he was? He ought to know better than to believe he could control her. _Nobody_ controlled her, and never had.

She wasn't lying. She wasn't an inherently good person, but people like Ratiri made her into one. And if anything happened to him, she wouldn't have a morality chain any longer, no fetter for her occasionally murderous temper. If Von Ratched underestimated that, she didn't care what she'd promised Geezer or the Lady -- it would be the last thing he would ever do.

\----

Well, that had gone even worse than Von Ratched had anticipated. He still had options, but he didn't want to be forced into using any of them. Breaking Lorna's link to Duncan would damage them both, but there was more than one way around that. While he couldn't do anything to her mind, Duncan had no such block. What Von Ratched was to do to the man depended on how well Wrigley recovered form his memory-wipe. Lorna had bargained for Duncan's physical safety, but they'd made no covenant about his mind. Something she was going to rue very soon.

\----

Ratiri wasn't surprised to see a lot of red in Lorna's aura, when she stomped out into the yard. She was absolutely livid, but she _had_ just dealt with Von Ratched.

He didn't ask about it. She needed a chance to vent her frustration on the hard ground, and she did -- so vehemently she broke the handle of her shovel. It splintered with such a loud crack that a few people near them jumped, and she looked at the half she still held like she wanted to drive it into Von Ratched's kidney.

"Do I even want to ask?" Ratiri murmured. Even with her tan, her face was pale with rage, eyes burning like stars about to go nova.

_We're getting out've here. I don't care what Geezer says, we are leaving. Tomorrow night, if we can. I don't care if I have to hijack a pilot, we are getting out've this damn place before he can hatch some other kind've plan. He wanted to send me back to room with Katje, control us just because he can, and fuck him. I'll talk to her and Geezer and Hansen tonight, and see if they want to go with._

_Lorna, that's--_

She glared up at him with such ferocity he actually took a step backward. _It's going to happen, and I don't care if I have to kill someone to do it. I know what he wants, and I'm not playing this bloody game any longer. He said he won't kill you, but I'm damn sure he'll try something else, and I won't let that happen. And if you lot resist me, I swear I'll play you like marionettes if it'll get you out._

He stared at her. There was a ruthlessness, a _viciousness_ about her that was disturbingly like Von Ratched, and for the first time he found himself afraid of her.  
But he knew what Von Ratched wanted, too, and it was only a matter of time before he grew impatient. The bastard wanted more than Lorna was probably aware of, and it would be best if she never found out.

"All right," he whispered. "We'll do this. But we're going to be _careful_."

She gave a reluctant nod, and he hoped to God she wasn't going to kill half the Institute tomorrow.

\----

Katje thought Lorna was insane, Hansen thought she was suicidal, but to her surprise, Geezer agreed with her.

_I thought you said we ought to wait_ , Lorna said. _I thought you'd be the hardest to convince._

 _We did wait. Something's supposed to come to this place, but it won't unless we get out and go get it._ He wouldn't say anything more, damn him, but it was always possible he didn't know anything more.

Katje was a lot harder to talk around, and Hansen wouldn't listen until Lorna all but took him over. She pointed out that he'd go mad if he stayed, knowing what he did now about this place.

_I need you to trust me, Hansen. Gerald. If we stay here, he wins. Even if he doesn't kill us, he'll wear us all down to nothing in the end. Now you know how much damage I'm capable've doing. If I wreck all the aircraft but what we leave in, they can't follow us and shoot us down. Geezer says he can pilot a chopper, so we won't even need a hostage._

 _And where will we go?_ he demanded.

_Anchorage. Katje can make us some normal-people clothes, and then we can work on getting the hell out've North America_. She hadn't figured out just where they could go, but Ratiri suggested a destination: India.

_If this thing's spread as fast as I think it has, we might be safe there. Mysticism is a broadly accepted thing in many areas, and it's a crowded country. There are probably thousands of cursed there, and Von Ratched would never find us. In the cities a fair number of people speak English, and I speak Hindi. It's just a matter of getting there._

They could work on that once they were free. There was no way they could land in Anchorage itself; they'd have to touch down somewhere in the wilderness and hike. They didn't dare use the airport there, since Von Ratched would undoubtedly be watching it, but if they could make it down the Al-Can highway they could theoretically fly out of Montreal. And once they were safe, the Institute was going all over every news channel that would take the story. They couldn't leave everyone else up there to rot.

Lorna was far too wired to sleep, and she wasn't the only one. Ratiri was tossing and turning on his bunk, and she watched him a while in the darkness. There was just enough moonlight that she could make out his form. _Ratiri, allanah?_ she said, a little hesitantly, _would you be upset if I kissed you? Only if we're all going to die tomorrow, I don't want to die having never done that._

He rolled over to face her. _I'll do more than kiss you, if you'll let me_.

She grinned, and tiptoed across the cold floor to his bunk. And then neither minded that they couldn't sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Von Ratched, you really, really shouldn't have done that.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

The next day was the hardest thing any of them had ever endured.

Fortunately, Von Ratched was busy in F wing, probably doing something nasty to Wrigley. The day was clear enough that they were let outdoors again, so at least they could burn off some of their nervous energy.

Geezer couldn't share in the excitement, though. They were meant to escape, he knew, but it wasn't going to go as Lorna planned. There were people they had to find, but not in India, and his vision had been so vague that he couldn't even be sure they would all survive. For once he'd seen something of himself, very briefly -- he was piloting a helicopter, and he wasn't alone -- and an Australian woman as tall as Ratiri, who would help them. Who she was, or what she would do, remained frustrating mysteries.

The only thing he was sure of was that not all of them would make it out. And that made him miserable.

He'd learned a long time ago that changing the future was damn near impossible. He'd tried more than once, but the outcome had always been the same, no matter what he did to the events leading up to it. Things had to play out as they were meant to, and trying to alter it often made them worse. Bitter experience had taught him to keep it to himself. 

It was how he'd ruined his hands. He'd known they'd be attacked if they went to a specific location, so he'd held the platoon up, naively believing they'd escape that fate if they weren't there. Of course they'd been attacked anyway, the casualties far worse than they would have been if he'd left well enough alone. It was a lesson he'd never forgotten, although he wished he could.

So he hacked at the earth with his shovel, and tried to ignore his mounting dread.

\----

Katje was terrified, but oddly, keeping Gerald's panic down helped her. She wasn't used to having anyone need her, but he did, and soothing him gave her something to focus on. Ironically, nervous though they both were, they calmed each other. They could allow themselves to fall apart when they were free.

To keep them both occupied, she taught him Dutch swearwords, and a few phrases he would find useful if they ever visited Holland. Someday she wanted to take him there, though they'd have to avoid many of her old haunts. He might be pushing thirty, but in some ways he was endearingly naïve, and he flushed brick-red whenever she said anything that shocked him. 

Honestly, she wasn't so sure what she thought of going to India. She burned so terribly that she'd never be able to go outside. Her English was still terrible, and she certainly didn't speak Hindi. Thank God Ratiri did.

Geezer was so tough and leathery a sunburn would probably take one look at him and flee, and Lorna's complexion was awfully dark for someone supposedly pure Irish. Katje was betting there was something else in her ancestry she didn't know about.

_Focus_ , Katje told her wandering mind. But she was afraid to focus, afraid to hope. In this place, hope was more dangerous than despair.

\----

By agreement, they waited until two in the morning before they began. It was late enough that Von Ratched would likely be asleep, or so they hoped. Certainly, everybody _else_ was.

Gerald had the codes necessary to release them all without tripping any alarms. Wrigley was still absent, and Katje remained without a roommate, so they didn't need to worry about waking any other inmates. Lorna was prepared to deal with anyone else they might encounter, to make any stray staff forget they'd seen anything out of the ordinary.

Fortunately they met no one, but when they stepped outside, the cold took her breath away. Moonlight glittered on scrub brush furry with frost, that crunched beneath their slipper-clad feet. They hadn't dared take the time to raid the closet with all the winter clothing, and in her scrubs and bathrobe she shivered so hard her teeth chattered. Helicopters had cabin-heaters, right? Without one, she thought they might freeze to death.

Getting into the base itself was going to be problematic. Gerald didn't have the codes or clearance to get into the military end of the Institute, but fortunately they found a lone, very bored guard at the back entrance. He was disabled easily enough, and _he_ did know how to get inside without setting off all the alarms. Lorna took as much from his mind as she dared, and then they were inside.

The hangar was massive, and only marginally warmer than the outside. The overhead lights were dimmed, but the group could still see the crates upon crates stacked all along the walls. They were stamped with black ink: food, medical supplies, weapons. Von Ratched had indeed been stocking up for winter, to an extent the craziest of survivalists would approve of. It smelled of chilled concrete and motor oil, bittersweet gasoline and some chemical she couldn't identify. Ratiri wrinkled his nose, and she thought it must be a downright stench to him.

The tarmac was where they hit trouble. There were more guards here -- four that she counted, but odds were good that there were more she couldn't see. They were a lot more alert than the one at the hangar entrance, too, big men in black uniforms that weren't any kind of military at all. What was the word? Mercenaries? Great. They probably didn't have anything like military rules.

Lorna's palms were sweaty as she tried to plant a gentle suggestion in their minds, her heart jackhammering so hard she'd bet Ratiri could hear it. She just wanted to convince the men to go around the far side of the base, out of sight of the tarmac. Sure, they worked for Von Ratched, but she didn't want to kill them. While it might be safer, it was the kind of thing Von Ratched would do, and she wouldn't be like him.

Thankfully, the men moved, though the one nearest her looked puzzled. _Ratiri, allanah, what do you hear? Are there others?_

He swallowed audibly. _Yes. They're a ways away, but there's another five I can hear._

Well, shit. The range of her telepathy was pretty limited when it came to anyone but Ratiri; she could hear, if she was lucky, but she doubted her ability to influence. _Geezer?_ she asked, turning to him. _This is your area. What do we do?_

Geezer looked more alert than she'd ever seen him. He was tense too, but it was an anticipatory tension. He wasn't panicking -- he was calculating. _Let's go_ , he said. _Nearest chopper. Get ready to bust up everything soon's we're airborne, or we won't stay up long._

As much as she wanted to destroy the entire damn base, Lorna was also terrified. She'd never willfully tried to wreck so much at once; all her previous acts of major destruction had been largely unconscious. Oh, she'd caved in the Activities Hall and taken out two helicopters, but this was a lot bigger proposition. She drew a deep breath, steeling herself -- 

A gunshot cracked the silence, a shot so close it made her jump, and Ratiri winced and covered his ears. Chips of concrete stung the side of her face -- oh God, that was way _too_ close.

Pure adrenaline kicked in a half second later, and she no longer needed to worry about her ability to smash things. A helicopter on the edge of the tarmac crushed like a pop can, windows shattering and blasting outward with a crash. It startled their sniper so much his next shot went wild, pinging off the pavement nowhere near them.

Katje let out a strangled shriek, but it cut off when Geezer grabbed her hand and yanked her forward. Two more helicopters tore apart as they fled across the tarmac, one sparking its gas tank and exploding with such force it shook the ground beneath their feet.

_So much for waiting 'til we're airborne_ , Lorna thought, picking up a third and throwing it in what she hoped was the sniper's direction. A scream told her she'd been close enough -- but another shot rang out, and another, and she swore.

"Get in," she snarled. Anger overtook her panic, and her resolution not to kill anyone went right out the window.

She turned, and focused as best she was able on the hangar. Her rage leant her a force she hadn't known she possessed, and the building literally imploded, the roof caving in with a deafening roar as the walls collapsed. _That_ shook the ground so much she almost lost her footing, staggering like a drunk as dust puffed through the still air like fog. Oh God, that _hurt_ , pain shooting through her every nerve like molten metal, but she wasn't done yet.

The air was so thick with pulverized concrete that Lorna couldn't see their escape chopper, but she heard it cough to life -- and then she heard Ratiri scream. Agony not her own joined her searing pain -- shit, had someone _shot_ him?

_Get in_ , she ordered the others again. _I'm still not done_. She had to get more of the aircraft, enough to give them a decent head start. But oh, it hurt so much she couldn't focus, couldn't direct her telekinesis at all. It earthed itself in anything it could, heaving and buckling the ground itself. Her eyes stung, filled with grit, and in spite of the cold she was drenched with sweat.

A stray shot pinged off the side of the helicopter, and that was enough. She gave up her assault and ran for it, stumbling over the uneven ground. Pure instinct drove her now, lending her energy she'd pay for later --

Burning pain lanced through her left shoulder, and a second later something all but tore her right calf apart. Down she went like a sack of lead, and Katje was screaming again, shrieking in Dutch like a banshee.

_Go_ , Lorna ordered Geezer. Her consciousness was fading as fast as the hot blood that soaked her clothes. _Get the fuck out've here_. She forced every bit of compulsion she could summon into the thought, and the last thing she heard was the helicopter taking off, wind buffeting her where she lay. Its artillery roared, blanketing everything on the ground, and to her relief the sound faded, the helicopter soaring off into the night.

_Okay_ , she thought dimly, _you can die now_. And with that thought, darkness took her.

\----

The chopper's cabin was filled with choking dust, and it was all Geezer could do to even see. His own instinct had taken over, an instinct very different from Lorna's. He might not remember a whole lot about Vietnam, but the skills he'd picked up there had ingrained themselves into his subconscious.

He was dimly aware of Hansen and Katje cursing in symphony behind him, her voice thick with tears. "Katje, put pressure there, as hard as you can." The sound of ripping fabric was almost inaudible over the thwap of the rotor, and Hansen had to shout to be heard. "It missed his artery or he'd have bled out by now. Shit, he's going to need a hospital, and how are we going to do _that_?"

They weren't. They couldn't. All Geezer could do was hope the woman in his vision could help, or Ratiri would be in serious trouble.

He wouldn't let himself think about Lorna. She wasn't dead and she wouldn't die, and his visions had shown him she would escape at some point, but that was all he knew. Whatever awaited her back at the Institute was a mystery to him, but he could guess. And he really didn't want to.

\----

The explosions woke Von Ratched along with everyone else. 

He wasn't a man who woke up by degrees. His eyes snapped open and he was at once fully awake -- and furious. While it was possible there had been some accident, it was far more likely to be Lorna's doing. How had she gotten out of the main building without setting off any alarms? He didn't know, but he meant to find out -- and kill whoever had helped her.

He dressed in a hurry and stalked to the military compound like an avenging Fate, ignoring his panicked staff. The cold outside barely registered, but the sight of what was left of the base actually halted him.

It took a lot to startle Von Ratched, but the sheer magnitude of the devastation was more than sufficient. It rivaled anything he could have managed, and in spite of his fury, some small part of him couldn't help but be impressed.

The strident wail of sirens accompanied dozens of voices shouting at cross-purposes. Black smoke that stank of gasoline obscured the stars, what looked like half his aircraft aflame. It cast the scene in hellish red light, the heat so intense it made him sweat as he approached.

The hangar was gone, blasted to smithereens, and it had to have taken most of his supplies with it. All that careful planning, done in by one tiny, maddening woman. This would take weeks to fix, weeks they might not have.

The smoke was so thick on the tarmac it stung his eyes, though the mercenaries fought to douse the fires. Every few feet there was a body, most done in by pieces of shrapnel from the ruined helicopters. Their blood was already freezing on the wrecked tarmac, creating stinking slush and macabre patches of ice. Where were they? Lorna wouldn't have gone off and left Duncan, but his thoughts were nowhere to be found. Had they actually managed to escape?

Lorna hadn't. Von Ratched found the thread of her mind, though it was very weak. She was unconscious, but alive -- though once he found her, she might not remain so for long.

Those murderous thoughts vanished when he spotted her. She lay facedown on the tarmac, dropped like a broken doll, and the back of her bathrobe was dyed with blood that almost looked black in the firelight. Her hair was frosted with pale dust, and to his very great surprise, dread seized him.

He knelt beside her, checking her pulse -- weak and thready, more blood seeping onto the pavement with every beat of her heart. Some idiot had shot her in the back -- it was no wonder she'd destroyed so much. Next to fear, pain was the biggest catalyst to Lorna's telekinesis. _Damn_ it.

A soot-faced mercenary approached, half-carrying a wounded comrade.   
"You," Von Ratched said. "Go to the main building and summon all the medical staff. They will attend to your wounded, but I want a stretcher here. _Now._ "

The man set down his injured compatriot and ran for it. Von Ratched put as much pressure as he dared on Lorna's wound, ignoring the blood that wicked up his sleeve. He needed to know what kind of round she'd taken, but there was no way of knowing until he could perform her surgery. He fashioned a makeshift compress out of strips from her bathrobe, and found that her right calf was essentially hamburger. Hollow-point bullet -- no wonder she was bleeding so badly. If the slug in her back was the same thing, she might lose her lung. _Why_ would she do something so incredibly, stupidly dangerous?

_You pushed her too hard. Hitting back even harder is all she knows how to do._

They would have to work on that when she recovered. And Lorna was going to recover: he would allow nothing less. She wasn't going to die on him, no matter how much she might want to.

"She had buddies," the injured mercenary said, his voice hoarse and weak. "We shot at 'em, but I think they got away. She's…what _is_ she?"

"The most dangerous person I have ever met, aside from myself," Von Ratched said, dry. "And something will have to be done about that."

He got his stretcher, as well as a bag of saline and a proper compress. The staff were left to deal with the rest of it, under the supervision of Nurse Grieggs. Hansen, damn the little rabbit, was nowhere to be found. That meant DaVries was likely gone as well.

The operating room was entirely the opposite of the mayhem outside, and Von Ratched felt himself relax a little as he scrubbed down. This was going to be a difficult bit of surgery, but he was in his proper sphere now, doing what he did best. Ideally he should have a nurse, but he could manage without one -- and in his current mood he might kill anyone who so much as breathed wrong.

Lorna, he found, was lucky. A standard 9mm round had pierced her shoulder, and though it had nicked her lung, it wouldn’t do any permanent damage. Her calf was another story: the muscle had been all but shredded, and he spent the better part of an hour and a half picking out metal fragments. He couldn't say he was sorry for that, either; all things considered, her immobility would be in his favor. She couldn’t try to escape again if she couldn't walk, and she'd be off this leg for a month at least.

_That might not stop her trying, though._ Her hospital bed was going in his damn living-room -- he wasn't going to make the mistake of leaving her on her own again. It would be a while yet before she'd spend any significant amount of time conscious. The scarring would be horrendous, but with proper physical therapy she should eventually regain full use of the limb.

For some reason, Lorna looked smaller while unconscious. She was a little bundle of contrariness when awake, the force of her personality giving her a slight illusion of height. Now, stitched and bandaged, she looked vulnerable in a way Von Ratched didn't like. Vulnerability was wrong on her -- and he found it odd that he should think so, since she was unquestionably easier to deal with like this.

Now he summoned a nurse, ordering her to give Lorna a sponge bath and wash her hair. Once again he had an odd notion of letting her keep her physical dignity -- even more odd this time around, since he'd just spent three hours operating on the woman. Still, it only seemed right to leave that detail to someone else.

Dawn was streaking the sky when he went out to survey the destruction again. It looked even worse in the daylight, and he was going to have a long, long headache of a day ahead of him. They needed fresh supplies, aircraft, personnel, and enough material to rebuild the hangar. While he could more than afford it, there was no knowing how much time they'd have before winter boxed them in.

And that was quite apart from what the inmates would do, when they found out about this -- and they'd know the details, sooner or later. Best tell them the escapees were dead, or he'd never be done dealing with copycats. Really, Lorna ought to be punished for this, but she'd been shot twice and all her friends were gone. Nothing Von Ratched could do would be worse than that. It might be wise to put her on suicide watch for a while.

He sighed, heading for his office. He had work to do.

\----

Once Katje was through panicking, she settled down to business. She had no training beyond basic first aid, but she wasn't very squeamish, so she helped Gerald as best she could.

Ratiri had been shot in the thigh, and the bullet was still in there. There was nothing to do for now but keep pressure on it, and try to keep him warm enough to avoid going into shock. She'd wrapped her bathrobe around him, and now she was shivering so hard she thought her bones would break apart. Her tears had dried on her face, and her cheeks felt cold and tight. Her nose wouldn't stop running, and her eyes still stung from the smoke and grit. If she hadn't had Ratiri to take care of, she might have fallen apart entirely.

She looked at Gerald, who had sacrificed his doctor's coat to Ratiri, and looked as cold as she felt. In the dim light of the cabin his face was grey, streaked with soot and dried sweat, but he was as professional as he could be, given the circumstances. Ratiri was only half-conscious, whimpering like a wounded animal -- he'd hit his head when he fell, and half-dried blood crusted the left side of his face. He was going to be a holy terror when he came to and found they didn't have Lorna.

But Katje couldn't think about Lorna, or she'd lose it herself. If Lorna hadn't died on that tarmac, nothing good would await her -- but there was no way she would have stayed behind unless she was mortally wounded. This entire thing had been her idea; she'd get out or she'd die trying. And she hadn't gotten out.

Katje hoped Lorna was dead, because God knew what Von Ratched would do to her if she survived. After all the damage she'd done, he'd probably torture her to death, and the thought made Katje ill. She didn't want to know just how creative he could get in that area, but her imagination was unfortunately vivid.

So she sat and shivered, and wondered if any of them would ever be whole again.

\----

Lorna wasn't sure when she properly woke. She spent far too long in fuzzy half-dreams, her mind filled with fire and death. If she was dead, this was surely hell.

But eventually she did wake, and found herself staring at an off-white ceiling. There was an IV in her right arm, and she was pumped full of so many drugs she felt like she was floating. What was she doing here? Where _was_ here?

Memory hit her like a tire-iron to the head. Oh shit, oh shit, oh _shit_. Not only was she still alive, she was still in the bloody Institute. The Institute she'd half destroyed.

She tried to sit up, and pain lanced through her right shoulder. That's right, she'd been shot -- there would be no running this time. Maybe she could hang herself on her IV line before Von Ratched could come back and murder her.

"Don't try to get up."

Lorna twitched. There was an orderly seated in a chair against the far wall, behind a portable desk strewn with paperwork. A woman, tall and big-boned in a vaguely pretty way, her dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail.

"Do me a favor," Lorna croaked. Her throat was so dry she could barely form words. "Kill me before that fucker comes back." Her words were so slurred and her accent so heavy that odds were good the woman wouldn't understand her at all.

"Can't. Doctor said you've got to recover."

_Why?_ she wondered. She'd be pretty easy to torture as she was. Why waste resources getting her back to health first?

"I have to say, that's a lot of damage you did." Was it just her, or did the woman sound a little impressed?

"Only thing I'm any good at." And lately, it seemed like that was true. Lorna Donovan, destruction personified. Soon to be the very _late_ Lorna Donovan, but growing exhaustion dulled her fear. At least the others would survive, since she'd left Von Ratched nothing to pursue them with. She'd got them out of hell, and that knowledge was the only comfort she had.

Consciousness wandered away again, and when it returned, the orderly was gone. Unfortunately, in her place sat Von Ratched.

Lorna tensed, but she was too weak and too drugged to break anything with her telekinesis. None of her vague nightmares could compare with the sight of that man, who sat so still he could have been a statue. He sat with his hands laced together, watching her with an intensity that managed to unnerve her even in her fuzzy state.

"I underestimated you, Lorna," he said. "Something I will take care to never do again. If it comforts you at all, your compatriots did indeed escape."

Why was he telling her that? Why would he give her any reassurance at all?

"You, however," he continued, "are going nowhere. Ever. I don't care if I have to keep you drugged until the end of time -- you will not leave this Institute."

Though his voice remained perfectly even, there was a threat and a promise in it that made her shudder. "Surprised you didn't kill me," she managed.

He arched an eyebrow. "I am not going to hurt you, Lorna. I do not break my own things -- and you _are_ mine. A fact you had better get used to."

"Piss off," she muttered, on pure reflex. The connotations of _that_ were something she just couldn't deal with yet. She felt sick enough already. If he thought he could hit her with a case of Stockholm Syndrome, she'd jump out a window before he had a chance to get started.

Von Ratched shook his head. "So very stubborn," he sighed. "You could be so much more than you are, if you stopped being too pigheaded to learn. No matter. I will teach you."

_Bullshit_ , she thought, her eyes tracking him as he left the room. Good. She needed some time alone -- time to think, insofar as she could through all the drugs. With these wounds she'd be stuck here a month at least, but it was never too early to start planning.

Unfortunately, he returned a moment later, carrying a hairbrush.

"No," Lorna said flatly. "You really want me to settle in here, you stop doing that."

"Hush, you foolish woman. Until your shoulder heals, you will not be able to do this yourself. Just be glad I have assigned a nurse to help you deal with everything else."

Oh, _ick_. She hadn't even thought of that, but she was profoundly grateful she could retain at least a little dignity. She stayed still and scowled as he worked on her hair, this time seriously considering chopping it all off as soon as she got a chance. Hell, maybe she'd even shave her head.

"Why do I repulse you so much, Lorna?" he asked, drawing the brush along the crown of her head.

"'Cause you're _you_ ," she retorted, still slurring. "I know what you are, Doctor. Why does it bother you that I do? Are you vain or something?"

Von Ratched laughed, almost silently. "Were you anyone else, it would not bother me. As it is you, however, we will have to work on that."

_Yeah, right_. She stayed resolutely silent after that, hoping he'd get bored and go torment someone else, but no such luck. Surely he had other stuff he should be doing, right? After she'd destroyed so much, he ought to be busy nonstop working out how to fix it all. Just how long had she been unconscious?

"There," he said, after what seemed like an eternity and a half. "When you are capable of staying awake for any length of time, I will bring you something to read. Meanwhile there is a button beside your bed. It will summon a nurse if you require anything."

_All I need is you in a coffin_ , Lorna thought, refusing to reply. _Preferably in bits._

Von Ratched shook his head again and left her, but she couldn't go back to sleep right away. How the hell was she to get out of this? Staying here longer than necessary simply wasn't to be thought of.

Sitting up was a struggle, but she had to look at her leg. It was splinted and wrapped in bandages, and she wondered how bad the damage was -- how long it would be before she could walk. Her right hand explored the wound at her shoulder, but it too was too heavily bandaged to properly investigate. Damn.

She lay back down again as carefully as she could, already exhausted again. _The others escaped,_ she reminded herself. Von Ratched couldn't hurt them anymore. It was the only good thought she had to hold onto.

\----

Von Ratched was indeed very busy, but he had to take time to see Lorna. Knowing her, she'd try to crawl away and reopen her shoulder. It was going to be hell when she managed to stay conscious for more than fifteen minutes at a time, but that could be dealt with when it happened.

For once in his life, he had no plan at all. Plans were pointless when dealing with her, so he didn't bother. Now that she was cut off from all her friends, he had a chance to make her believe he wasn't a total monster -- the problem was that he was a complete bastard, and she knew it.

But it would be at least a week before she was consistently awake enough to do much of anything. Meanwhile he'd spent a full day on his satellite phone, seated in his office with a succession of gin and tonics. The speed with which everything had to be done made the cost enormous, all the more so because none of his suppliers were legal.

The new hangar would be a bare-bones construction, since he just wanted _something_ put together before the snow flew. It had to be big enough to hold their supplies and a few aircraft, but it didn't have to be fancy. Few of his mercenaries had actually died, though plenty would be in traction for a while.

The inmates were confined to their rooms for now, and wouldn't be released until he could devote proper attention to dealing with them. At least if they were separated, they wouldn't gossip. Grieggs was in charge of them, since she was one of the few of his staff he trusted to be able to deal with it all.

And yet, even with the stress, he was in a remarkably good mood. Lorna had inadvertently taken care of the Ratiri problem for him, and if the man was far enough away, she wouldn’t be able to talk to him. Even Von Ratched's telepathic range only stretched a few miles, though he was working on that. He didn't want to admit that his escapees had run so far and so fast that he couldn't locate them telepathically. That was weakness, and the underlings had seen him physically wounded too often already. He preferred them thinking he was something more than human.

He signed off on the last of his paperwork, and went to tour the inmates' wing. It was blessedly quiet here, and a few scared faces peered at him through the small windows in the cell doors. _They_ certainly thought him inhuman, and that pleased him. He was something more than they, and they should damn well know it.

Von Ratched would be the first to admit he was a very arrogant man, but he had the power to back up that arrogance. Until he'd met Lorna and Duncan, very few things had ever escaped his control: his world was ordered exactly as he liked it. And now, with Duncan gone, it could be again. Lorna would be problematic for a long while yet, but if she was the only troublesome element in his life, he would count himself fortunate.

The cafeteria gleamed as it never had when it was used, and the Activities Hall was immaculate. He'd keep the inmates penned for at least another week, until they'd be so stir-crazy they'd behave like angels if it meant they could leave their rooms.

Meanwhile, there was still Wrigley to deal with. The boy was back to being heavily sedated, and he couldn't be kept in isolation indefinitely. When things had settled down, Von Ratched would repeat that experiment on a few other inmates, to see if the results were typical. It would be good to get back to proper work.

He gathered some things from the kitchen and went back to his own apartment to cook. Lorna should at least try to eat something, if he could keep her awake long enough to do it. She'd need books soon, and perhaps he could give her a television, though there was no way he would let her watch the news. She could have movies, though, once he figured out what she'd like. If she grew too bored she'd try to get up no matter what he said, and she really did need to stay off her leg. In another week he'd give her crutches, so she could at least go to the bathroom on her own, and it would need a cast eventually. The bone was fractured, but he couldn't put a cast on it until the flesh and muscle had healed.

She was asleep again when he got home, her duty-nurse reading a paperback book. "Has she woken at all?"

The woman put aside her book. "Not fully. She started muttering in some language I didn't understand, but she didn't respond when I questioned her."

He knew the nurse was vastly curious as to why Lorna was in his apartment rather than an actual hospital room, but like all his staff, she would never ask. Doubtless they would speculate among themselves, but let them. They knew better than to question him. "It's a start, I suppose. You are dismissed for this evening."

She nodded, and left with a distinct air of relief. Von Ratched knew it unnerved the nurses and orderlies to be in his private space, but it couldn't be helped, and they would never pry into his things. It meant they were in for a certain level of boredom, but that couldn't be helped, either.

He looked at Lorna, who was definitely unconscious now. It was somewhat odd that he'd started finding her beautiful, but he did. Her past life had marked her, yes, but it gave her a certain allure she would not have had if she'd looked like DaVries. He could see the woman she might have been, had her life been different. She was a great deal more intelligent than she let on, and he wondered what she would have made of herself, if she'd had a proper education. Perhaps he could see to it she got one now. She had so much potential, and he would see she made use of it.

He went to his kitchen to make dinner -- steak for himself, soup for her. She'd be on a diet of clear liquids for some time yet, but Von Ratched was a very good cook, and he could make chicken soup a little more interesting. His kitchen was spacious enough for him to properly work in, bigger than one man probably needed, with black granite counters and a gas stove worthy of a chef. Very rarely did he feed anyone but himself, but he had expensive taste, and his tools had to be worthy of it.

He made her some tea as well, sweet ginger to soothe her stomach, and mixed himself a White Russian, though he'd been drinking on and off all day. Using morphine was a bad idea with Lorna here, so he'd settle for the poor man's substitute. Once she'd recovered he'd have to be careful with that, too, since the last thing he needed was her to plunge back into raging alcoholism.

The shelves with all his notebooks would have to move, too, probably to another, more private office. He didn't trust Lorna to respect his privacy -- he wouldn't, were he in her shoes -- so everything that wasn't locked in his desk had to go. This was not a living arrangement he'd made on a whim; he'd figured out how to Lorna-proof his apartment some time ago. He'd acclimate her, and then….

_Then what?_ a snide little part of his mind asked. _You can't keep her locked in your apartment indefinitely. She would go mad._

He knew that. Of course he knew that. The goal was to make her want to stay, and he was arrogant enough to think he could do it.

With a shake of his head, Von Ratched took the soup into Lorna's room. She was half awake now, but she snapped to full, wary consciousness as soon as she saw him. 

"I am not going to poison you," he said, forestalling her protest as he picked up her breakfast-tray one-handed. "You must eat, if you are ever to recover enough to get out of this bed."

She didn't fight when he set the tray down, and the smell of the soup was enough to make her pick up the spoon. Those green eyes were still wary, though, still regarded him as very much the enemy. There was a fine pattern of scratches on her left cheek that hadn't healed yet, and a rather spectacular bruise over her right eye. Her chin was scraped, and she'd split her upper lip against her teeth -- it looked like she'd lost a bar fight. He wondered how many she'd been in, throughout her life.

"I didn't know you could cook," she said at last. 

"There is a great deal you do not know about me, Lorna."

"I just bet," she muttered acidly.

"Sooner or later you will stop being so hostile."

"Doubt it," she said, slurping her soup. "Been this way my whole life. Don't you go thinking I'll change on _your_ account."

"You did for Ratiri," he pointed out.

"You, mate, are not Ratiri," she snorted. "You're like…the anti-Ratiri. I know what you are."

He sat in the spare chair, crossing his arms. "And what do you think I am?"

She blinked, genuinely surprised. "You're a bloody monster," she said, in the tone of one stating the very obvious. "You're a controlling, arrogant twat who doesn't give a damn about anything you don't find useful. You think anyone who isn't you is thicker'n a yard've lard, and you don't care that everyone hates you for it, 'cause we're apparently a lesser species." Drugged though she was, her glare was knife-sharp.

What she said was more or less accurate, too. Von Ratched was incapable of fooling anyone for long, but Lorna had seen too much of his bad side to be fooled at all. "I care what you think," he said.

"Then you're a right idiot. You're not after me, you're after what you think you can turn me into."

_That_ assessment hit unnervingly close to home. She could be a little too perceptive, Lorna Donovan.

"And why do you say that?" he asked.

She slurped her soup again, and he suspected she did it to annoy him. "There's nothing about me a man like you would like. If it weren't for my curse you'd never've so much as looked at me. I know what _I_ am, too, Doctor. I'm common as mud, and you sit there like you want to be some kind've aristocrat. You'd better get it through your head now that you can't change me, and save us both the bother."

Technically he _was_ an aristocrat, but his history was not something he was willing to share with her yet. "You could be so much more, Lorna," he said quietly. "If you had a proper education, anything like basic manners, even --"

"I'm happy the way I am," she cut him off. "And if I ever make anything else've myself, it'll be on my terms. I've got by just fine so far without so much as a Junior Certificate. Not everyone needs to be a bloody genius with a box full've degrees. Someone has to grow the food and mix the drinks and take care've all the things that're supposedly beneath people like you. If you want someone posh, find another telepath."

_Why_ did she still have to be so stubborn? How could she be content to stay as she was? She had opportunities now she had never been given, and she had no interest. He knew she had the brains for it -- but then, perhaps it was just to spite him. That would change, in time.

"Eat your soup," he ordered, "and make me a list of books you would like."

There was something almost smug in her expression as he left, and he cursed her pigheadedness. Oh well. He'd known from the first that this wouldn't be easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Von Ratched, you have no idea what you've just got yourself into.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which other Gifted are found.

Geezer had landed in the wilds outside of Anchorage. Unlike most cities, it didn't descend into suburban sprawl: the edge was sharply delineated, which gave him plenty of cover. Katje transfigured two of the bathrobes into normal-people clothes for him, jeans and a heavy jacket, and made copies of the twenty-dollar bill in Hansen's pocket. She said she could only make a thing if she'd seen it before, so Geezer hoofed it into town to get medical supplies, and see if he couldn't figure out who he was supposed to contact.

There was no snow yet, but the morning air was bitterly cold, turning his breath into pale fog. He warmed up soon enough, though, and managed to hitch a ride with a trucker halfway along.

His first stop was a pharmacy, where he picked up rolls of gauze, hydrogen peroxide, industrial-sized tweezers, and a big bottle of Tylenol. At a sporting-goods store he bought a reel of fishing line, and a fabric shop supplied him with a needle. There was no way to get a proper suture kit, but this would do in a pinch.

Last stop was an Army surplus, where he bought several wool blankets, and then, loaded with plastic bags, he stopped for lunch. He'd need to get food for the others, and clean water, but he had to eat first himself or he'd drop. A big Philly cheesesteak took care of his hunger, and he rested for ten minutes. He still had to figure out who he was supposed to contact, and then it would be a long walk back to the chopper.

His waitress looked at him keenly as she dropped off the check. She was a bony woman of perhaps forty-five, with dark skin and inky-black hair that told him she was probably at least part Inuit. There was a second piece of paper in the receipt she handed him, and when he unfolded it he read _Call Miranda Black of the DMA. She'll help._

Geezer looked up, but the waitress had already moved on. He left her a generous tip and went back out into the cold to hunt for a payphone. Now that the whole damn world ran on cell phones, it took him the better part of an hour. He punched in the number at the bottom of the paper, his heart pounding.

"Andrews Pizza Company. How can I help you?"

He blinked. "Uh, I was told to ask for Miranda Black," he said, shivering as a gust of wind knifed right through his jacket.

"Hold, please." Bland, mind-numbing Muzak assaulted his ears, and then he was addressed by a thickly Australian voice.

"This is Miranda," it barked.

"I was told to call you," he said. "Waitress in the Cheese Hut told me you could help."

The woman's tone changed immediately, morphing into something businesslike. "You in Anchorage?"

"At the moment. I've got people outside of town, though, and one of 'em's injured."

"Can you hold out for another day?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No," Miranda said, a little dryly. "We'll find you as soon as we can."

"How?"

"We have ways. This is supposed to be a secure line, but you never know. Hang in there."

The line went dead, and Geezer stared at the black receiver. If this was to be their salvation, it was a damn weird one.

He didn't make it back to the helicopter until late afternoon, and found two of his charges shivering and miserable. Ratiri was still completely out of it, and Hansen practically pounced on the medical supplies.

Katje wrapped herself in a blanket and devoured a roast-beef sandwich. Warmth and food brought a little color back into her face, though she went a little green when she surveyed Hansen's handiwork. 

Now that they weren't flying, Geezer assisted, giving her a break. "He gonna make it?" he asked.

"If we can get him to a hospital soon," Hansen said, dousing the wound in hydrogen peroxide. It fizzed and bubbled, and Geezer had to look away. Blood was one thing, but for some reason that was just too gross.

"People coming for us tomorrow," he said. "Help. They'll set him right."

Hansen looked too tired to question it. There were deep purple shadows beneath his eyes, and his face was grey with worry and sorrow.

"Eat something and get some sleep, kid," Geezer said. "I'll look after Ratiri a while." 

Hansen only managed half a sandwich before he fell asleep, curled up with Katje in a nest of wool blankets. Ratiri was well wrapped-up, so Geezer took the last blanket himself, and wished like hell he had a cigarette. They were out of the wind, but it was still like a meat-locker in here. Come night their breath would frost the windows, and he _really_ hoped that Miranda woman would pull through before Ratiri died. With a leg wound, he should have regained consciousness by now -- though it was a good thing he hadn't. It would be bad enough later, when they were somewhere safe.

Geezer shivered, and settled in for a long vigil.

\----

Katje woke to the sound of another helicopter, and automatically flailed for anything she could use as a weapon.

"It's all right, lass," Geezer said. "This is the help I promised."

She rubbed the frost off the window with the corner of her blanket, and watched a massively tall blonde woman crawl out of the second chopper. She wore American army fatigues, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and she sported three visible guns. _What_ had Geezer found?

A second woman hopped out, just as odd as the first. Quite a bit shorter than the blonde Amazon, her spiky hair was bright purple, and she sported enough facial piercings to set off a metal detector. An intricate tattoo looped up above the collar of her coat, a Maori pattern dark against her brown skin. Her long coat was black wool rather than military camouflage, and she shivered in the chilly morning air.

Geezer wrenched the door open and stepped out, and Katje strained to hear what he was saying. 

"--four of us, one with a gunshot to the leg. Think he's in shock. Debrief us later, once he's been looked after."

The two women returned to their helicopter, and came back with a stretcher. Katje automatically started gathering their supplies together while Ratiri was loaded onto it, and braced herself to step out into the cold. It was just barely sunrise, the eastern sky faintly pink, and the ground beneath her thin slippers was so frozen it sent her feet numb after five steps.

She took over the back corner of their new transport, which was much bigger than the last one -- a proper medical helicopter, with a place to secure the stretcher. The purple-haired woman fussed over it while the Amazon fired up the engine, and Katje let herself relax a little. It was _warm_ in here, and at this point she didn't care where they were heading, so long as it wasn't the Institute. It was far too loud to sleep, but at least she could doze, and doze she did.

It had to be a good two hours before they touched down again, landing on the roof of a drab green building in the middle of a vast expanse of forest. "Is this hospital?" she asked, when the blonde killed the engine.

"Way-station," the purple-haired woman said. "Come on."

From what little Katje saw as they passed through, it did look like little more than a bunkhouse, utilitarian and undecorated. They reached a plain steel door with a keypad beside it, and the Amazon entered a code. "This isn't gonna make much sense to you, but hold the questions 'til we're settled, right?"

"Gotcha," Geezer said, speaking for all of them.

They stepped through the doorway…into a foyer much too big for the tiny bunkhouse. This looked like the lobby of a very plain hotel, with a dark tile floor and off-white walls plastered with signs and notices. There was even a desk, manned by two guards in plain black uniforms.

The blonde woman tilted the pair a salute, and led the escapees through a long corridor. The walls remained papered with notes and signs and what looked like advertisements, as though the old ones were just covered over rather than taken down. There had to be decades' worth, plastering every available surface. Where were they? It didn't look like any military installation Katje had ever heard of, and the purple-haired woman certainly wasn't wearing any kind of uniform.

The corridor opened out into another, this one as wide as any city street. It was even divided into lanes that were busy with bicycles, scooters, even a few four-wheelers loaded with boxes. None of these people wore uniforms, and few enough were dressed even remotely alike. It was warm in here, and there were women in halter tops, men in garish surfer shorts. A pair of tall Masai women in traditional garb walked past on what Katje could only think of as the sidewalk, their beaded jewelry clinking softly. A bevy of Indian men and women followed, and behind them hurried a medical team, who descended on Ratiri like helpful vultures.

"Sorry about the heat," Purple Hair said. "We keep different sections different temperatures, and this one's the hot zone for people like our Aussie here. No, Doctor, you come with us -- he's in good hands."

Gerald made a halfhearted protest, but he looked as boggled as Katje felt. The two of them and Geezer stood out even among this odd crowd, filthy, sooty, smelling of sweat and smoke and gasoline. Wherever they were going, she devoutly hoped they had coffee. She followed their rescuers like a kitten on a string, the warmth reminding her ever more of how much she needed a shower. Coffee, a shower, a toothbrush, and eventually a real bed, and she could die a happy woman.

The strange pair of women led them to what looked like a conference room, a big place with long Formica tables and a whiteboard taking up one entire wall. Katje's heart sank a little -- God knew how long they'd be stuck in here, explaining who knew what to who knew who.

"I just need to ask you some questions," the blonde woman said. "Then I'll let you eat and get cleaned up. There's a lot of people who are gonna want to talk to you later. The first thing _I_ need to know is where the hell you got that helicopter."

Katje all but collapsed onto a hard plastic chair as Geezer outlined their escape, with occasional input from Gerald. She herself was so tired that her English wasn't up to the task. To explain it would be to re-live it, and she wasn't up to that, either.

The blonde woman, however, was riveted to a degree that was almost unsettling. Her manic blue eyes were afire with something Katje didn't want to interpret. "We wondered where that rat bastard had gone," she said. "He dropped entirely off our radar, and that's never happened before."

"You know about Von Ratched?" Geezer asked, incredulous.

"Of course we do," the woman snorted. "We've been trying to kill him for the last forty years. Nobody knows for sure where he came from or when he was born, but he's a lot older than he looks. So far he's been too smart for us -- everyone we've sent after him's either turned up in bits, or never turned up at all."

" _Forty years?_ " Geezer demanded. "Just how fuckin' old _is_ he?"

"Honestly, we don't know. All we _do_ know is that he's been working for the U.S. government since the early fifties, and that he's hardly aged at all. Why, or how, is probably something only he knows. He's caught all our assassins before they could send any information back."

"It's his telepathy," Gerald said, rubbing his temples. "Normally he can see anything coming. We wouldn't have made it out without _our_ telepath. And she died back there."

"No, she didn't," Geezer said. "I know she'll escape eventually, but not when or how. Seen her in the future, but I dunno how she winds up there. Her hair's got a lot more grey, and I think she and Ratiri had got kids, so who knows. That's another thing," he added. "That guy we brought in is gonna be a handful when he wakes up and finds out she's not here. Better keep someone strong with him."

"We've told you our story," Gerald said. "Now tell us -- what _is_ this place? Who are you people?"

"Department of Magical Affairs," the blonde woman said. "DMA, for short. I'm Miranda -- I more or less run this place, or try to. We're all like you."

"Department?" Gerald asked, bewildered. "Department of what entity?"

"There's always been a few people like us in the world," Miranda said. "Not many, but the DMA's the closest thing we've got to a government. Up until now, everyone like us was born that way -- we train our kind to use our abilities, and relocate them if we have to. Up 'til now, we've managed to stay hidden."

"How?" Geezer demanded. "This place has to be huge. How could you hide it?"

"We're in our own pocket dimension," Purple Hair said. "The DMA's been around a very long time, under different names. Even we don't know when it was founded, or who found this dimension. Some of our records go back over two thousand years, and they hint that we've been here a lot longer than that."

"Jesus," Geezer muttered. "So why are we suddenly everywhere?"

"Your guess is as good as ours," Miranda sighed. "All we do know is all the idiots who can't control their shit are playing hell with our regulators." She looked from Geezer to Gerald to Katje and back again, pensive. "I guess there's no harm in showing you," she said. "It's not exactly secret. C'mon."

Great. Movement. Katje followed, and the words of the others blended into a babble she couldn't sort out. Ordinarily she understood English much better than she spoke it, but even that was getting hard to manage. Instead she watched -- everyone got out of the way for this Miranda woman, automatically stepping aside. It was still a bizarre collection of people, from soldiers to Buddhist monks to Rastafarians, all moving with a purpose. Few of them looked twice at the dirty, ragged little group, and Katje wondered just what went on in here, that they didn't find the sooty, stinky trio odd.

They walked what felt like miles, until they reached a big steel door with another electronic keypad beside it. Miranda let them through, into a very peculiar room.

It was laid out like the pictures Katje had once seen of the NASA control center, long rows of consoles manned by personnel in all kinds of clothing -- no uniforms in here. The carpet was dark, the overhead lights like those she'd seen in movie theaters. The front wall was dominated by a giant window, looking out on the most amazing thing she'd ever seen.

It looked like an indoor forest, but the trees were made of pure light. Huge trees, big as redwoods, but where there should have been bark there were luminescent threads, some as wide as electrical cables, others hair-fine. No two were the same shade -- they spanned every minute hue of the spectrum, and the light of each gently flared and ebbed, as though each had its own heartbeat. "What _are_ they?" she breathed.

"How we normally manage the magic in the outside world," Miranda said. "The Trees even it out, and suck up any excess so it doesn't do things like discharge itself in the weather. It worked fine until you people started showing up, but now we're scrambling day and night to stop you lot creating a hurricane."

"How does it work?" Gerald asked, awed.

"I'm the wrong person to be asking. Honestly, none of us know all the details -- the Trees are another thing that have been around longer than our records go back."

"Doesn't it bug you, working with something you don't totally understand?" Geezer asked.

Miranda smiled crookedly. "You have no idea. We all do what we have to do, and hope for the best."

"Meanwhile, Miranda here has an emergency plan for _everything_ ," Purple Hair said, with a slight groan. "Just wait until she puts the whole damn DMA through one of her drills."

Katje was too busy staring at the Trees to pay much attention to the rest of the conversation. She drifted toward the window, half wishing she could walk through that forest -- but at the same time, the force of its power set her teeth on edge. Here was something the like of which she'd never imagined, let alone seen. It made her forget her grief, her worry, her weariness -- made her feel, for the moment at least, like Katje Annetje DaVries again, self-possessed and fearless. Until the Institute, she had been afraid of almost nothing, and she wanted that back. She wanted _herself_ back, and now that she was free, she was damn well going to get it.

She turned, returning to the others. "So what we do about Institute?" she asked quietly. "It has to go. _Doctor_ has to go, and it looks like if anyone do this, it is you."

For the first time, Miranda properly looked at her. "We'll work on that. You three go eat and get cleaned up -- there's people you need to talk to. Julifer will get you some clothes and temporary apartments, until we can work out proper housing. You're safer here than you would be anywhere on Earth."

Safe. It was a concept Katje had all but forgotten the meaning of, in the last few months. She hoped she'd have a chance to get used to it again.

\----

Geezer appreciated the beer even more than the shower and clean clothes. Julifer seemed like a kid after his own heart -- she had him sent a big salami sandwich and a six-pack, and he'd see if he could beg a pack of cigarettes later. It was good to feel like a _person_ again, not some kind of fucked-up POW.

When he emerged from his room, clean and full and relaxed in a way only alcohol could provide, he found Hansen waiting for him. The kid looked…dazed, honestly, like he hadn't properly taken everything in yet. His hair was damp, his face scrubbed clean, and someone had given him new glasses. "I'm having a hard time believing this is real," he said.

"Believe it," Geezer returned. "This place is what all of us are gonna need." Whenever war hit them, these people were the only ones who would be on their side.

A woman in black fatigues appeared and led them to another conference room, where they found Katje already waiting. Julifer had provided her with makeup, as well as a pair of very tight jeans and a low-cut red tank top. Geezer shook his head. He didn't care if the kid was twenty-three, she still looked way too young to sport that kind of getup. Or maybe he was just too old.

Beside him, Hansen paused, visibly tongue-tied. _He_ at least appreciated her clothing -- which was, Geezer thought, probably why she'd picked it. At least if she snared Hansen, she'd probably give up her so-called profession.

They sat beside her, and Geezer grew ever more curious as more people filed in. An odder assortment he couldn't remember seeing -- soldiers, two men in Islamic robes, an Indian woman in a beautiful sari. A lot of people in various levels of civilian clothing, a priest with a white collar, three Buddhist monks, a man in a Sikh turban, and two old hippies.

Once they were all seated, Miranda called them to attention. "These three just escaped that bastard of a doctor we've been trying to off for so long. They say he's got a lot more people up north, and we've got to figure out how to get them out. I don't suppose you guys have any actual coordinates on that place, do you?"

Geezer shook his head. "Nope. And I'd advise you don't send a military strike. Last people who tried that all wound up dead."

The whole assemblage stared at him. "You gotta understand how dangerous Von Ratched is," he said, wishing like hell he had a cigarette. "Now that we've escaped, he's gonna expect us to come after him. Dunno how far that telepathy of his reaches, but unless we hit hard and fast, he'll know we're coming.

"Now, he doesn't have any aircraft left, but I dunno how many weapons he's got stashed outside the building we destroyed. He's not dumb enough to keep all his eggs in one basket -- I'm betting he has reserves. We took out a lotta his other supplies, too, so he's bound to be pissed.

"We gotta get in there soon, though. Weather's gonna go sour in a month if we're lucky, and then everybody'll be stuck up there for the winter. And they might not survive."

"How the hell did you manage _that_?" one of the other soldiers demanded.

Geezer sighed. "We had a fifth person," he said. "She's got the same curse as him, and she wrecked damn near everything around her. She got shot, and when she's hurt or afraid, her telekinesis tends to go outta control."

"Telekinesis?" Miranda asked sharply. "We didn't know he had that. No wonder we've never been able to kill him."

Katje looked at Geezer, confused. "I still do not know how you know Lorna survive," she said.

"Trust me," he said grimly. "She's alive, but once she's recovered enough, a lotta other people might not be. Von Ratched's got a… _thing_ for her," he added to the assemblage at large. "Or thinks he does, anyway. He pushes her too far, she won't be able to help herself. And then we might not have anyone to rescue."

A somewhat awful silence followed that, until Julifer raised a hand. "Weather won't be an issue," she said, and pointed to the Indian woman. "Shivshankari there's a weather-manipulator, and she's not the only one. Father Anthony is an electropath, but that won't do much good against most weapons. He could knock out any tracking systems they've got, though."

"Turquoise there is a pyrokinetic," Miranda added, pointing at one of the hippies. "We light everything on fire, the weapons won't do any good."

Geezer shook his head. "Not that easy," he said. "Von Ratched's got ways of knocking people out at a distance. Only chance we've got is to draw him outta the Institute, and I'm damned if I know how to do it."

"If Lorna escape, he would follow," Katje said. "And you know she will try."

"Woman got shot, kid," he reminded her. "Even a minor wound's gonna keep her in traction a while, since she's so small. And you know as well as I do that bastard'll keep her doped to the gills for a while."

"True," she conceded, frowning.

"'Sides, even if she did escape, there's no way we'd know it. There's gotta be some other way to drag Von Ratched out of his den. I just dunno what it is yet."

"Drag him out and kill him," Miranda said. "Might be the only chance we've got. Otherwise he'll just disappear again."

"Good luck," Hansen muttered. "A lot of us aren't sure he's even human."

"Oh, he is human," Katje said. "He bleed, yes? We saw him." She glanced around the table. "All of you, what is it you do here?"

"We're liaisons," the priest said. "We deal with the outside world. There are people all of us have to warn out there. And people we can work with. Not all the normal population is against us."

"Do what you have to do, guys. We'll meet back here in two days. I'll see about finding that place by satellite."

She stood, and beckoned Geezer, Katje, and Hansen. "I want you to draw me a layout of that place, as best you can. Write down everything you know, no matter how insignificant it might seem. The more info we've got, the better."

They nodded. "Tell me when our guy in the hospital wakes up," Geezer said. "You're gonna need help dealing with him. Trust me."

\----

The next day, Lorna forced herself to stay awake long enough to plot. She couldn't let herself grow soft, gunshot wounds or not.

She stared at the ceiling, letting her babysitter believe she was too drugged to think. That wasn't far off the mark, either; her head was so fuzzy everything took twice as long to compute as it should.

There was no conceivable way she was getting out of here before winter hit. It was a fact she simply had to accept -- she wasn't going anywhere until she could walk again, and she didn't know how long that would take. Leaving just wasn't going to happen yet, and that left only one option.

Kill Von Ratched.

She'd promised the Lady and Geezer she wouldn't, but that was before this happened. Normally Lorna was a stickler about promises, but there was simply no way she would put up with that bastard until spring. She didn't trust him, and didn't want to know what he'd try to do with her if he was around her too long. She could guess well enough, and she'd be damned if she'd let that happen. So he had to die.

The thought was horrifying, no matter how much he deserved it. Too many people had died by her hand already, a fact that had yet to properly sink in. Now she had no Ratiri, nothing to distract her from the cold hard fact that she'd killed people. The two chopper pilots she was sure of, but she was certain some of the mercenaries had died, too. And whatever they might have been in life, however terrible, they had been living, breathing, thinking human beings. And Lorna had ended that.

She shut her eyes, wondering if she could get some incense. This whole place smelled like Von Ratched, and she could do without it constantly reminding her where she was. It was a strange scent, because it was underlain with something like ozone -- the smell of a coming thunderstorm. It was unnerving, and she couldn't afford that right now. No human being should smell like that, and in her woozier moments she wondered if he was really human after all. Sometimes in her nightmares he was the Grim Reaper -- but then, sometimes she was, too. Last night she'd dreamt she'd killed the entire world.

Lorna rolled over, facing away from the nurse. At least the hospital bed was comfortable, far more so than the rest of the various prison bunks she'd occupied here, but in a weird way, that troubled her. She didn't know how to deal with anything Von Ratched did that wasn't horrible. No doubt he expected some reaction of her, and since she didn't know what it was, she didn't know what to do to disappoint him. The last thing she wanted to do was inadvertently make him _happy_.

Those thoughts still troubled her when he came back, dismissing the nurse. By now he expected hostility from her, so she thought she'd try another tactic: bluntness.

"What exactly are you hoping to accomplish, keeping me in here?" she asked, struggling to sit up as he brought her more soup. He looked tired, she noticed, and mildly annoyed. Good. "Do you honestly think you'll hit me with Stockholm Syndrome or something?" Her tone was curious, not accusatory, and she could tell it had caught him off-guard.

"Not the term I would have chosen, but broadly, yes," he said, and that startled _her_. "And you believe it will not work."

"I think the Americanism is ' _duh'_ ," Lorna said. "Come on, you're too smart to think something so bloody stupid. All this is going to do is irritate you, and I think you know it."

Von Ratched put aside his fork, and she assessed him as detachedly as she could. From what little she really knew of him, he didn't seem the type to hopelessly delude himself, but it looked like that was exactly what he was doing, and why? It was a question she just couldn't answer. Even whatever potential he thought he saw in her couldn't be _that_ big of a draw. "How long are you going to keep questioning me about this?"

"As long as it takes to get a real answer," she said evenly. "What're you going to do when I can move again? Keep me locked in here until I go barking mental? Unless you knock me out every night, you've no way to be sure I won't kill you in your sleep. How d'you know I won't try to poison everything in your fridge? To say nothing've the fact that you haven't got anyone left to threaten me with -- I've no reason at all to cooperate anymore. Only reason I'm still here is this blasted leg." _You might as well just give up now_ hung unspoken in the air.

He reached for her hand, and when she tried to kick him, pain exploded through that twice-damned leg. Kicking was pure reflex when it came to him, but oh God did it hurt like a bastard now.

"You are unusually garrulous tonight," he noted, arching an eyebrow. "I am surprised you are willing to speak to me at all."

_That’s the point, arsehole_ , she thought. "Not like I'm going anywhere yet. I need to know, going forward, how delusional you really are." Still, there was nothing hostile in her tone. She was going for conversational, and mostly succeeding.

He sighed. "Right now, going forward, you need to rest, heal, and eat your dinner before it gets cold."

_Eat up like a good little pet_ , she thought. "You really want to get in my good graces, you let me watch the evening news," she said, and he went very still. "Compromise goes both ways, Doctor. If you want me to cooperate at all, you'd best give me something in return." He wouldn't, she was sure, be able to do it. Von Ratched was a man who only knew how to take, not give.

"Maybe," he said, rising and taking his half-eaten meal away.

Lorna sighed, slurping more of her soup and really, really wishing she had a beer. She frowned when Von Ratched returned with that damn hairbrush. "If you _really_ ever want to get in my good graces, you'll stop doing that," she said. "Repeating something you know I hate'll get you nowhere."

Of course that didn't stop him, and it was all she could do not to fling the rest of her soup at him. The thing was, if he'd been anyone else, this might have been pleasant. She'd love to have Ratiri brush her hair, but Von Ratched was so relentlessly creepy about it. It was like a borderline fetish with him, and it quite effectively killed her appetite.

His fingers brushed her collarbone, and that had to be deliberate. Her hand shot out on instinct and seized his wrist, sending a jag of pain through her left shoulder. "Watch yourself, mate," she growled. "Try that again and I don't care of I've only got one good arm -- I'll break every bone in your bloody wrist."

To her surprise, he smiled. "I was wondering what it would take to make you angry," he said. "There is the Lorna I know." 

A mingling of dread and bewilderment overtook her. He _liked_ her temper? Oh, Christ, that was a problem. She had a hard enough time keeping it when he wasn't deliberately provoking her. If he was going to sit there and try to make her mad, what the hell was she to do? Controlling her anger was something she'd rarely bothered trying, and these were definitely not ideal circumstances to learn how.

"You've a death wish, don't you?" she asked, releasing his wrist. "You've seen what I do when I'm right pissed off -- why would you _want_ to make me mad?"

"That is my own business," he said. "You will learn, in time."

_I just bet I will._ What game was he playing with her now? Surely he had rules, but Lorna was too drugged to work them out. Either he really did like her temper, or he was only saying so to train her out of using it. Why did he have to be so damn…well, _Von Ratched_ about everything?

Well, sod him. She'd have to stagger her fits of temper, if she could, so that he'd never know what would set her off and what wouldn't. The thought was…tiring. And it wasn't the only thing making her weary. "What'd you put in my soup?" she demanded.

"Nothing. I will never drug you in secret, Lorna. If I give you anything, you will know if it."

It was probably, she thought sleepily, his way of being polite. That was a tidbit she filed away for later, to be examined when she was coherent.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which much plotting is done and absolutely nobody is happy.

Von Ratched watched Lorna fall asleep, mildly amused. He didn't need to be able to read her mind to see the wheels turning, to watch her try to take apart his every sentence. It would be some time yet before she stopped second-guessing his motives, but let her. She would see, in time, that he meant what he said. Because he genuinely believed that he did.

He took her bowl to the sink and tidied up the kitchen, wondering how much of a mess she would make when she was up and about. She didn't strike him as the kind who would be very neat about their personal things, but she would learn. When the dishes were put away he put on a pot of coffee, knowing already he wouldn't sleep tonight. That was just fine, considering how much he had to do.

When he went to his office he discovered it was snowing -- heavy, wet flakes that were already piling up. That was going to make construction difficult if it kept up, assuming the weather didn't go too sour to even have anything delivered. He had plenty of supplies in reserve in other places, but not enough to see them through the winter. _Damn._

He put on his overcoat and went to inspect his ruined hangar. At least there wasn't any wind, but the snowflakes stung where they touched his face, whirling in a bewildering almost-pattern that made land and sky indistinguishable at a distance.

Most of the wreckage, he found, had been cleared away. Staff and mercenaries had salvaged what supplies they could, but too much had been destroyed. Even now the smell of smoke lingered, mixing with the sharp tin scent of snow. Yes, Lorna had done quite a number on the place, but in spite of the trouble it caused, Von Ratched was oddly proud of her. However aggravating it might be at times, he loved that strength of hers, misapplied though it was. If anyone could come close to being his equal, it was her. She just had to learn how to use it, to harness it and direct it at worthy goals.

Ice and debris crunched under his boots as he walked the tarmac. The place was still littered with broken glass and bits of shrapnel, but that was of little matter. He didn't plan on staying here another year.

Too many people knew where the Institute was. There was no guarantee that the government wouldn't send another strike against him, and if the four escapees found help, they'd find their way back sooner or later. Come spring he would relocate, possibly to the wilds in Russia. God knew there was plenty of space, and then no one would find him.

Meanwhile, there was winter to be gotten through. The first shipments of his building supplies ought to arrive in the next two days, and if he had to supervise construction, he would. The mercenaries were soldiers, not contractors, but Von Ratched knew what he was doing. He could work on his patients at night.

He went back to his apartment and poured himself some coffee, shaking the snow from his coat. Lorna was still very much asleep, so he checked the dressings on her shoulder and calf. The nurses had been changing them, and both wounds looked to be healing satisfactorily. The leg was eventually going to require some intense physical therapy, but that would be at least a month and a half away.

He left her to sleep, and fetched a sketchpad. He'd better start designing his new Institute.

\----

Katje slept over eighteen hours before she settled down to write about the Institute. Julifer gave her a Dutch-English dictionary, and she filled the better part of a spiral notebook with her neat, loopy handwriting.

She didn’t just describe the building. All the experiments that she knew of went in there, too, as well as the riot and the first, failed escape attempt. It was weirdly cathartic, writing and chain-smoking and downing vanilla vodka like water. By the time she was through she had a hacking cough and was rather drunk, so she ate a sandwich and went to take a bubble bath. She had to sober up a little before she went out to deliver her notebook.

The bath was heavenly, though the hot water made her head spin a little. The bubbles were scented with lavender, sweet and soothing, but it reminded her too much of Lorna.

Katje didn't like the idea of Lorna still being alive, and she _really_ didn't like the thought of what Von Ratched might do to her. Geezer said she was meant to escape eventually, but he'd neglected to mention whether or not she'd be in one piece, or have any sanity. Knowing Von Ratched, he might well amputate her feet to keep her from running away again.

Lorna just didn't know how to manipulate men. She didn't know how to manipulate anyone, and that was likely going to cost her. Katje would just seduce the bastard, but Lorna would probably hang herself at the mere thought, and _why_? Katje honestly didn't understand other people's reluctance to do things like that -- why Geezer had said she was being used, rather than the other way around. They said 'whore' like it was a bad thing. Von Ratched was an attractive man, if you could look past the creepiness of his presence, and he was indeed good at what he did; doing business with him hadn't been the least distasteful. But she was probably the only person who would see it that way, since his personality was so repellant few would see through that to his appearance.

She stretched, her joints cracking and head spinning a little more. She'd been told she had no self-respect, and she didn't understand that, either. Of course she respected herself -- it was why she made sure she was comfortable wherever she went. Why suffer, when such comforts were easy to obtain?

Nobody understood, and she didn't expect them to. She had to admit it was a little nice, not having to barter, but bartering could be a game in and of itself. At least she might be able to get Gerald to succumb to her charms, now that they were away from the Institute.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a pounding on the door, and with a groan she left her bubbles and grabbed a bathrobe, tripping a couple times along the way. "This had better be good," she snapped, but softened when she saw it was Gerald -- a distinctly panicked Gerald.

"Get dressed," he said. "Ratiri woke up."

Oh, _hell_. "Come in," she said. "Give me five minutes." An uneven race around her bedroom produced a towel and some clothes, and she hurried out while still trying to pull   
on one shoe.

"Bad, yes?" she asked, and Gerald nodded miserably. "I talk to him. He will not hurt me." No matter how maddened Ratiri was, he was still at heart a gentleman, and she was female. She was certainly in for a tirade, but it would be no worse than that.

When they reached the hospital, Katje faltered for half a second. She had to remind herself that this wasn't the Institute, that it was a place of healing, and let her determination carry her forward.

There was no need to ask where Ratiri was. His shouting could be heard two hallways away, and she broke into a slightly unsteady run, hoping he wouldn't kill anyone before she got there.

Her fears weren't unfounded. She skidded to a halt to find Ratiri gripping a doctor by the throat, utterly heedless of his wounded leg. His brown eyes burned with a light that was almost infernal, wild as an animal's. Two terrified orderlies hung back, uncertain, but Katje marched right in and slapped him. It wasn't a sissy slap, either, but a blow with the full strength of her arm behind it.

"You _stop_ now," she ordered. "Put him down. You are not animal, Ratiri Duncan, so do not act like one."

He actually did as he was told, probably because he was too stunned to do otherwise. The doctor staggered back, wheezing as an orderly hurried him away, and Katje crossed her arms and glared at Ratiri like a disappointed parent. "You think this help?" she demanded. "You sit and talk like civilized person."

He didn't sit, but some of the madness left his eyes. "You left her," he said hoarsely.

"We thought she was dead," Katje said. "Geezer says she live, and we will get her, if she does not find us first. Do you really think Lorna stay there one minute more than she have to?"

Ratiri shut his eyes, and sat heavily on the bed. "You _left_ her," he growled.

She pulled up a chair to face him. "We would have died, if we stay. We would be dead and Lorna would be alone, with no one to get her. Use your brain, yes? Von Ratched would have killed us all, and she would be alone."

"She's alone now," he said bitterly, a hint of a snarl in his voice.

"But not forever. We go _back_ for her, Ratiri. Her and everyone. You know Von Ratched will not kill her, but she might kill him. This is Lorna we are talking about."

"What if he -- brainwashes her, or something?" Ratiri said, his eyes still molten.

Katje snorted. "Again, this is Lorna we talk about. You say he cannot get in her head, yes? And he knows what happens when he hurt her. Things go smash. She will wait for you, and you will do her no good if you stay like this. It is not who you are."

She could tell she was only half getting through to him, but half was better than nothing. She also knew she was being a hypocrite, telling him not to worry, but what else could she tell him? Sharing her own fears would do no good at all.

"Is there something he can hit?" she asked, turning to face the remaining orderly. 

"We have a gym," he said, in a small voice. "But he needs to stay off that leg."

"Then get something he can break. He have to take his anger out on _something_."

The orderly scurried off, and Katje turned back to Ratiri. "You hold together," she ordered. "You must be you when we get Lorna. You think _I_ hit hard -- she will slap you to next week if she find you like this."

That of all things seemed to calm him, and she glanced at Gerald. He looked relieved, but still wary. "She's right," he said. "Rest that leg, so you can go with us when we go back to the Institute. We're working on a plan now."

That was a massive overstatement, but it wasn't entirely a lie, either. If anyone could pull it off, it was that crazy Miranda woman.

"I want to give you a sedative, Ratiri," Gerald added. "Just a mild one. You have to rest, however hard it is -- you're a doctor, you know better than to push it."

Ratiri sighed. "Fine," he said. "Give me the damn sedative. I'll go barking without it."

Gerald left, and Katje reached out and took one of Ratiri's hands. "We will get her. We will get everyone. We are safe in this place, and they will be, too. You will see."

He didn't look like he believed her, and she couldn't blame him. She probably wouldn’t either, in his shoes.

Gerald returned with a needle, and he and Katje sat with Ratiri until he dozed off. 

"We should go find Geezer," she said quietly. "I think he is with Miranda."

They left Ratiri to sleep in whatever peace he could find. "Call one of us when he wakes again," Gerald told a nurse. "You're going to need all the help you can get."

"No kidding," she said. "He's going to be a nightmare, isn't he?"

"Probably. None of us are too fond of hospitals right now. It would be best if he could be moved into an apartment soon."

"I'll see what I can do. Was where you were really that terrible?"

"Worse," Katje said grimly. "You have no idea."

It was all she could do not to flee when they left, off to hunt down their other friend.

\----

A week passed, and day by day Lorna managed to stay awake a little longer. Von Ratched made good on his promise to bring her books, but she spent a lot more time plotting than reading.

Through the window, she could see snow falling with depressing regularity. By the time her leg healed, escaping on foot really would be suicide. Even if she could snare a pilot, flying would be likewise impossible. She'd need something like a snowmobile, so when some of the so-called orderlies came to sit with her, she did a little telepathic rooting.

What with all the drugs, it wasn't easy, and even when it worked she gleaned mostly useless information. The quasi-military orderlies were separate from the mercenaries, and there was little communication between them. They knew the replacement hangar had gone up, and that on clear days supplies had been ferried in, but not much about what those supplies were.

Logically they were going to need some kind of snow equipment to move things around the base. Her task would be to get hold of one and get the hell out, which would be much easier said than done. Even if she killed Von Ratched, that left her with one hell of a lot of people to deal with. Of course she could just kill _everybody_ , but she didn't want to. There were still a few places she just wouldn't go, not even to escape. That meant she had to practice, but God knew she didn't have anything else to do.

The living-room was big, but it was starting to feel intensely claustrophobic. No way was Lorna going to ask Von Ratched for a change of scenery, but that didn't mean she didn't want one.

On the fifth day, he offered one. "I would like to take you outside this evening," he said. "I believe you should observe what has become of your handiwork."

She eyed him warily. He had to have some ulterior motive, but her head was too fuzzy to puzzle out what it was. That might be perfect, though -- if she could get close to any mercenaries, that might tell her more about what she had to work with.

"Fine," she said, sitting up. That was much less painful now, though her shoulder still ached when the painkillers ebbed. "I could do with a trip out've here."

"Good. I will fetch you a wheelchair."

Lorna sighed when he left. Of course she wouldn't be able to use crutches because of her shoulder, but she didn't like the idea of a wheelchair. It was another reminder that she was still a total invalid. Plus, it meant she would have to let him _touch_ her.

But she could grit her teeth and bear it, and she did, trying not to wince at the pain in her leg. The last thing she needed was more drugs to cloud her mind. Well-bundled in heavy wool blankets, a scarf around her neck, she tried to sit patiently as Von Ratched wheeled her out into the hallway.

This late in the evening it was deserted, thankfully, the lights dimmed. How odd to see all the flat white again -- say what she might about Von Ratched's apartment, at least it wasn't as sterile as the rest of the Institute.

As soon as they made it outside, the cold slapped her in the face. Tiny flakes of snow were drifting on an almost imperceptible breeze, settling like down on her blankets. She could hear ice crunching under the chair's wheels, and knew her supposition was right: by the time she was anything like mobile, the land around the Institute would be impassable. Great.

Huge banks of floodlights had been erected around the tarmac, turning it into a weird moonscape. The bones of a new hangar stood beside the wreck of the old one, the roof complete but the walls still bare plywood.

"That was fast," she observed, feeling she should say _something_. She still wasn't sure why he'd brought her out here, what he expected her to see.

"You would be amazed at the speed money can buy," Von Ratched said dryly. The weird thing was that it didn't sound like he was boasting of his wealth -- it was more like he was disparaging the greedy. "Which is fortunate, or we might all have starved this winter. Did you intend to doom the rest of your fellow inmates to such a fate?"

Ah. Guilt-tripping. It was so petty Lorna found herself disappointed in him, but at least that pettiness proved he was human. "I _intended_ to come back for them all," she said, matching his dryness. "With an army, whenever I could get one. I'm not stupid enough to leave someone like you loose to run about the world."

"I am hardly running anywhere," he pointed out, rolling her onward, and she shivered. Slight though the wind was, the cold worked its way through her blankets. She wasn't going to let on, though; she wouldn't cut this excursion short. Not until she'd found something useful.

"Aye, not yet," she said, an automatic retort as her mind scanned for others. Only two were close enough for her to spot, and then she was left with the task of searching them without letting Von Ratched know what she was doing. She wasn't good at multitasking at the best of times, and the lingering painkillers weren't helping matters at all.

"No one is running anywhere this winter," he said. "Including you. I will not have you commit suicide by wandering off into a storm."

She wasn't going to _wander_ anywhere. A SnowCat and a straight line hardly counted as 'wandering'. "If I committed suicide, it'd be a lot flashier than that," she said absently.

_The man nearest her was cold and cranky, pissed off by being stuck on the night shift --_

"I have no doubt it would be. I do not intend to allow you the chance."

_\-- a shipment had come in this morning, and he was stuck dealing with inventory by himself --_

"Von Ratched, if I really wanted to kill myself, you couldn't stop me."

_\-- eighteen drums of gasoline, forty crates of food supplies, two dozen palettes of medical shit he had to break down and sort out --_

"Do not call me that."

_\-- another palette of mechanic's tools --_

"What _should_ I call you? You hate your first name. Mind you, I can't blame you -- it's pretty stupid. Say it wrong and it sounds like a pissed-off cat. _Raouuuuuuuul_." 

_\-- wait, machine oil, spare treads -- yes! Bingo._

"Stop that. I really do need to stop drugging you so, don't I? Call me Von Ratched if you must, but at least make an effort not to make it sound like an epithet."

_\-- with treads like that, there had to be at least one SnowCat. Brilliant!_

"I'm not making any promises. You're the one who says my name like I'm some kind've pet."

_All right, enough. Head hurting now. Bleh._

"You do not look well. I am taking you back inside."

"Don't feel so great," she said, fighting nausea. Even with the cold, the sheer effort of such delicate telepathy left her sweating. "Think I could sleep again." The warmth of that hospital bed actually sounded good, and Lorna could rest content for once -- she knew something now, something useful. And small a thing though it was, it made the idea of escape real. She had to look at everything from this point on as biding her time.

The heat of the indoors was a blessing, and she tried not to smile. If Von Ratched saw any sign of happiness in her he'd be incredibly suspicious, and she couldn't afford that.

"Did you enjoy your little excursion?" he asked.

"I did," she replied honestly. "I'd like to do it again sometime. I'm not the kind've person who likes to stay cooped up for long." Something he would know already. Wanting to go back outside wouldn't be out of character at all.

When they reached her bedside, she swatted him away before he could try to move her. "Let me try this on my own, will you?" she said, giving him a warning look that wasn't quite a glare.

To her surprise, he stepped back, and after two false starts she managed to haul herself out of the chair and onto the bed. For such a small thing, it gave her a ridiculous level of triumph. It sent pain jolting through both leg and shoulder, but it was worth it. It was the first real movement she'd made on her own since she got shot.

Von Ratched looked at her with faint amusement, but there was no mockery in it. "As you are in such a good mood, you will not mind if I brush your hair."

"Don't push your luck," she said. "Can you not just let me have one decent evening, without your creepiness ruining it?"

His expression went very, very strange -- it was yet another one Lorna had never seen on him. "As you wish. I will give you another painkiller before you sleep."

He fetched a needle, and when he'd injected her arm and gone, she stared at the closed door in bewilderment. Had he really actually listened to what she said, for once? Strangely, the thought worried rather than pleased her.

Oh well. She had her valuable little nugget of information. That could keep her going while she healed, and meanwhile she could enjoy the combined warmth of blankets and morphine, watching the soft fall of snow until it lulled her to sleep.

\----

In the kitchen, Von Ratched fixed himself a screwdriver. He was troubled in a way he had never before known.

Lorna had looked genuinely pleased by her trip outside. It was the first time he had ever seen her so, however much it had drained her. She'd snarked at him, something she hadn't done since before the mess with Duncan. He found he enjoyed it, and would have liked to hear her continue while he brushed her hair, but she'd recoiled from the idea far more visibly than she was likely aware of. And for the first time, he fully comprehended how very much she hated him touching her. And yes, that bothered him. 

He retreated to his bedroom, and sat on the bed without bothering to turn on the lights. The TV he did turn on, but he kept it muted, the screen casting an anemic dance of light and shadow over the room. The drink was bitter -- too much vodka, not enough orange juice -- but it suited his mood.

Her detest of contact with him was troubling, and to his surprise, it wasn't merely because he found it inconvenient. For once in his life, his reaction wasn't entirely self-centered. Yes, her squeamishness was aggravating, but it disturbed him that he made her so uncomfortable. Concern over another person's comfort had not hitherto figured in Von Ratched's life, and now that it did, he didn’t know what to do about it.

He leaned back against the headboard, staring at the TV but not actually watching it. Logically he should just stop touching her altogether until she adapted to her situation, but dammit, he was a very tactile man. He was willing to content himself with just brushing her hair, but she balked even from that.

And it was only because it was him. He had little doubt she would love having Duncan brush her hair, but the very idea horrified her when he himself tried it. And he knew damn well why.

He should never, ever have done what he did to her mind. For once he'd ignored his intuition, and they were both paying for it now. Lorna associated all contact with him with what she probably considered rape, and he couldn't go into her head to undo it. His theory -- that brushing her hair might ease that -- was proving very false. Damn.

Downing the rest of his drink with one gulp, he took the glass to the kitchen and went to check on her.

She was out like the proverbial light, her face turned to the window. The snow was coming down even more heavily, and though it made his life more difficult, in a way he was also grateful. It trapped her here more effectively than anything else.

He approached her bed, and let one ungloved hand hover a fraction of an inch above her hair. Dammit, he _wanted_ to touch her, and not out of mere carnal frustration. At this point he'd settle for being able to hold her hand.

Against his better judgment he let his fingers travel down over her face, almost but not quite touching her skin. Her body heat warmed his fingertips, her breath ghosting over them like the faintest flutter of a moth's wings. They moved down to the fabric over her left shoulder, just barely brushing the cotton.

She stirred a little, and Von Ratched drew his hand away. All he could do was have patience, and tonight a little morphine would help him along. Lorna was so dead to the world that a half-dose wouldn't hurt.

And the warm rush of the drug did calm him, even if it didn't make him sleep. He sat awake a very long time, staring at the television, and wondered what he was going to do.

\----

A week into their stay in the DMA, Katje came to Geezer with a plan. One he thought had a little potential.

She brought a bottle of whiskey to his apartment, her blue eyes aglow. "Has Miranda located Institute yet?" she asked, plunking down on a kitchen chair. Unlike her, he'd made no effort to inject any personality into his living-space -- table, chairs, and couch were all standard issue. Only the hubcap-sized ashtray was his own.

"We're not sure," he said, grabbing a couple glasses and some ice. "Weather's messing with the satellites, and we've gotta be careful anyway." The DMA, he'd learned, had no satellites of its own -- it hacked into several from four different countries. "Why?"

Katje accepted her glass and poured, grimacing a little when she tasted the alcohol. "I know we talk about telling media what went on there," she said, "but what if we say where it is? If everyone knows -- if Von Ratched _knows_ they know -- maybe he will try to run."

"What the hell would stop him from killing everyone before he did?" Geezer asked, but he was intrigued.

"I looked up word in dictionary," she said. "Arrogance. He likes people afraid of him, yes? I think he would leave them alive to tell world what he did. What he can do to people." 

"We're risking a lotta people's lives on that guess," he pointed out.

"You do not know him like I do," she said, and Geezer twitched. No, he didn't, and he was damn glad of it. "He is…I think word is 'showoff'."

"I don't want to ask how you know that."

"No," she said, with a slight smirk, "you do not. But I see side of him you have not. He is a showoff. If he kill people, world would just see he is murderer. If he leave them alive, they can say how strong he is, how dangerous. If any flaw bring him down, it will be his ego."

She had a point. She had a very good point, but it was still flawed. "There's no guarantee."

Katje snorted, sipping her whiskey again. "There is no guarantee of _anything_ with him. But if you were up there still, would you want outsider to give you chance, even if it mean you may die?"

Reluctantly, he nodded. "I guess you're right. But if he does bolt, he'll take Lorna with him."

"Which would be completely stupid. You think she would go easy? It would give _her_ chance to bolt, and you know she would. We need to write out what we will say, find someone who will let us say it, and blow whole thing wide open."

Almost in spite of himself, Geezer was intrigued by the idea. It was risky as hell, but so far it was the only idea they had that had any chance of success, however remote. "Let's talk to the others, and take this to Miranda. We've gotta be sure we know where the place even is, but lass…I really think you might be onto something here."

She grinned, a full-blown, dazzling Katje grin. "Gerald will be in hospital," she said. "We get him and Ratiri at once."

\----

Gerald agreed with the idea, but Ratiri thought they were all insane. Even the painkillers in his system wouldn't make him see the idea as anything but lunatic.

"No," he said flatly. "I won't be a party to that."

"If you have better idea, I would like to hear it," Katje said peevishly. She was leaning against the wall, her arms crossed, regarding him with a look that said very clearly she wouldn't stop until she got what she wanted. It was probably, he thought irrelevantly, why she'd been such a successful prostitute.

"I haven't got one," he admitted. "But I still think you're all mental."

"Look at it this way," she said. "The longer we take here, the longer Lorna is stuck with Von Ratched."

Dammit, she was right. Ratiri didn't want to leave Lorna with that bastard any longer than they absolutely had to. And she was the one person they could be sure Von Ratched wouldn't kill. "If he does run, he'll drug her," he pointed out. "He's not stupid. He'll drug her and drag her off God knows where, and we'll never find her."

"Lorna would kick you if she know you underestimate her like that," Katje retorted. "He would not drug her forever."

"'Sides," Geezer put in, "she _does_ escape eventually. I seen it, and whatever else these damn visions are, they're never wrong. We gotta give her a chance."

Ratiri sighed. "If she was hurt too badly, she won't be able to run."

"Yet," Gerald said. "Give her time."

"Von Ratched probably think he can Stockholm Syndrome her," Katje added. "And when it comes to Lorna, Von Ratched is total idiot."

_That_ was true enough. But the others…they didn't care about Lorna the way Ratiri did. They didn't know how hard her life had been already. She was a strong woman, but everyone had their breaking point, and if anything could make her snap it would be Von Ratched. And if he shattered her, she might never be whole again.

_She's not whole_ now, a small voice pointed out. _Give her a chance. You know she'll take it._

She would. She really did want Von Ratched dead, and if anyone had a chance of actually taking him out, it was her. The question would be whether or not she would be able to live with herself later. Von Ratched unquestionably deserved death, but that didn't mean she'd be able to truly accept being the one who doled it out.

But they might have a very slim opportunity to spare her from it. And however insane the plan sounded, Katje was right -- so far, it was the best one they had.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That violence warning? This chapter is (the beginning of) why.

Four days later, Von Ratched put a cast on Lorna's leg. It was a deeply unpleasant experience, but it was mitigated by the fact that he finally agreed to let her get up. Her shoulder meant she could only have one crutch, and had to do a lot of graceless hopping, but at least she could make it to the bathroom on her own.

It also gave her a chance to case his apartment while he was away. The ever-present nurses meant she could never take long about it, but at least she learned the general layout.

She read a great deal, and was given a spiral notebook to write in. Knowing Von Ratched would read it, everything she wrote was in extremely colloquial Irish, filled with slang he wouldn't be able to translate with any dictionary. She wrote until her hand cramped, the ballpoint pen leaving globs of blue ink on the paper. He'd tried to give her a nicer pen, but it felt awkward in her hand, too fine and expensive.

Nothing of her escape plans went into the notebook. Lorna was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to translate it, but she wasn't willing to literally bet her life on it. Instead she eased her homesickness by writing of the past, coding everyone's names, and then turned to her future plans, what she wanted to do when she _did_ escape. And she would, no matter how long it took.

_I want a garden_ , she wrote, _a big garden with everything I can grow. I want to live on that mountain the Lady showed me, with Ratiri and everyone. I'll adopt a couple kids, give them everything I never had. We'll be well away from the stupid conflicts of bloody society, safe in our own little world. I'll never be trapped inside again._

Having plans helped, and made Von Ratched's presence easier to bear. Let him think she was starting to resign herself to her situation. Her little notebook helped her mostly keep her temper in check.

"What're you going to do, when I'm up and about again?" she asked him at dinner that night. "You can't keep me shut up in here forever. I won't stand for it, and you know it." There was still a tinge of hostility in her voice, because he'd expect that. She couldn't appear too pleased, or he'd get suspicious.

"I will take you outside, when the weather permits. You will also have to make use of the gym -- once your wounds have healed enough, you will require intense physical therapy."

Lorna made a face. "Do I have to?" she asked, putting a little whine in her voice.

"If you ever want to walk properly again, yes," he said, a little sardonically. "By the time you can properly move again you will be very weak, and I know you would not like that."

True. She'd need at least a little strength before she hared off into the wilderness.

"Besides, I want you in good shape."

She almost choked on her tea. The intonation of that sentence made it beyond creepy. "Why?" she asked warily.

Von Ratched arched an eyebrow. "Lorna, I do not intend to keep to this living arrangement indefinitely. I did not bring you here to keep you forever a roommate."

She felt the blood drain from her face, just before searing rage took total possession of her. "Oh, _really_?" she snapped, using her anger to shove away her panic. "Though you said you wouldn't rape me, areshole. If you think I'll let you anywhere near me like that, you'd best kiss your eyeballs goodbye." Gunshot wounds or no, she was three seconds from braining him with her dinner-tray, her hands itching to latch around his throat and choke the life out of him.

"I won't," he said calmly, lacing his hands together before his face. "Someday you will cease finding my objectionable. I could easily take care of that now, if you would give me a chance."

That horrible panic rose again, fluttering in her gut like a trapped rat. "Not a chance in any hell that ever was," she growled. "You've me as a flatmate because I've got no choice in the matter, but you'll get nothing more from me. _Ever_."

Her words didn't faze him in the slightest, and that condescending confidence snapped what little remained of the tether on Lorna's temper. She flung the teacup at him, then seized the tray and launched herself off the bed, swinging it straight at his head. Pain jolted all through her, but she was so infuriated she barely noticed it.

The overhead lights blew out with a high-pitched shatter, raining shards of frosted glass, and the tray made solid contact with _something_. Clawing fingers sought his eyes in the darkness, just before the window blasted into sand-fine fragments. Icy air and snow gusted in, but it did nothing to cool her rage.

A hand like a steel vice seized her right wrist, but something hot and wet welled beneath the nails of her left hand, and the coppery scent of blood assailed her nose. If he wanted another scar at her hands, she'd damn well give him one. Her entire world filled with pain and a terrible juxtaposition of heat and cold, and her teeth sank into Von Ratched's ear, tearing and gouging. The faint moonlight that filtered through the broken window let her free hand find his throat, small fingers closing around his windpipe.

The world tipped with nauseating speed, and her back hit the floor so hard all the breath went out of her. The breath, but not the fight. Even when he grabbed her other wrist she tried to bite, snarling worse than Ratiri's inner animal had ever managed. The tang of blood filled her mouth, and she spat it at him. _Now_ the pain was making itself known with a vengeance, but it still didn't stop her.

"There is no need to be so destructive, Lorna," Von Ratched said, sounding entirely too calm. "I told you I would not harm you like that, and I mean it." His eyes glinted in the shadows, unholy and inhuman. "But you must bear in mind that I _could_. I could do anything I wanted to you, but I will not. However much you try my patience."

She spat at him again. "Try it and I'll kill everyone in this place," she growled. "I could, and you know it. Now get. Off. Me."

"No."

That did it. Pure instinct made her flip the nightstand, smashing it over his head, his back, wood splintering under the force of her telekinesis. Her telepathy lashed out at the same time, and he actually cringed, wincing at the force of her combined assault. It was enough to let her throw him off, though it turned her shoulder into a well of agony. He was a dead man, even if he didn't know it yet.

She brought the chair around with as much force as she could, and was rewarded by Von Ratched's hiss of pain. "You said you wouldn't underestimate me again, arsehole," she snapped. "Too late."

Her fingers closed on something cold and metallic -- her butter knife, knocked aside when she swung the tray. With a feral cry Lorna brought it around and plunged it right into his chest, sheer strength making up for its bluntness. It drove through skin and muscle with a sickening, tearing squish, but he still didn't cry out.

"Die in a motherfucking fire, you _twat_ ," she snarled, twisting the knife with all the force she could summon. Hot blood poured over her fingers, smearing halfway up her arms as he thrashed, and she grinned savagely. All thought, all rationality, all Lorna was gone, replaced by a being of pure fury.

Somehow Von Ratched managed to grab her hair, his fingers winding into the strands at the crown of her head and pulling so hard it felt like he was trying to tear it out. She twisted the knife around again, feeding his pain with her own, and --

_Oh_.

Her grip on the knife loosened, her muscles suddenly unwilling to support her. Even her shoulder didn't register any pain when she hit the floor -- there was simply no room for it. What she felt was as far from pain as it was possible to get.

"How -- you can't get into my head anymore," she somehow managed, just before she lost the capacity for speech entirely.

"I cannot get into your _mind_ ," he clarified. "This is merely a matter of synapses. I might not own your mind, but I do own the rest of you. Be grateful I do not intend to use it against you. Now sleep," he ordered. "I will not harm you."

She didn't have a choice. Unconsciousness hit her like a brick.

\----

Von Ratched eased Lorna's head down as soon as she was well out, and struggled to sit up. It was surprisingly difficult, and not just because of the pain. She'd hit his mind like a jackhammer, with a force even he hadn't expected.

Quite honestly, he hadn't expected _that_ at all -- had he anticipated it, he wouldn't have a butter knife hilt-deep in his shoulder. She was right -- once again, he had underestimated her.

Getting up was something of a chore, made all the worse by the fact that he had to take Lorna with him. He kicked the door shut behind him, blocking away the cold, and managed to deposit her on his office couch. She would live, though she would be rather unhappy when she woke.

He actually staggered on his way to the bathroom, and had to lean against the doorjamb to turn on the light. Hot red pain radiated all through his chest, and he knew now what Geezer had meant. He did literally have a knife in his chest, but bloody though it was, he wouldn't die from it.

With great difficulty he pulled off his bloody shirt, tearing the fabric to pull it away from the knife. Good God, Lorna hadn't been merely defending herself -- she really had meant to murder him. Blood still welled around the knife's handle, but it was thick and sluggish and reassuringly bright. She hadn't hit an artery, but she'd come perilously close to his lung. 

Detaching himself from the growing pain, Von Ratched ferreted out his first-aid kit, laying his supplies neatly along the white marble counter. His blood left streaky red smears where it dropped into the sink, but he was methodical about his work, rinsing his hand before opening a suture kit. This was really going to hurt, but oh well.

He gripped the knife, and with a deep breath and one strong pull drew it out. More blood poured, but it didn't spurt, and he dropped the blade into the sink with a faint clatter before clamping a towel over the wound. The blood was still bright, with none of the darkness that would signify organ damage. It meant he could take care of the injury himself, however unpleasant that would be.

He eyed his reflection as he waited for the pressure to staunch the cut. His throat and chest were smeared with gore, four deep scratch-marks gouged through the scar tissue she'd already left on his neck. His left ear was a bloody mess, and his throat was already developing bruises in the shape of small fingers. Yet again he would have to be careful who he allowed to see him, a fact that annoyed him immensely.

Eventually he tossed the towel aside and started suturing, using the mirror for a guide. Eight stitches -- not as many as his neck had needed, but more than he liked. Careful washing, antibacterial salve, and a great deal of gauze, and then he could have some morphine. Even with all that, he'd start a course of antibiotics in the morning, just to be safe.

He was tired enough by the time he was through, but he checked Lorna's shoulder and administered a sedative, to make sure she wouldn't wake up before he did. With a damp kitchen towel he washed the blood from her hands and face, and sat back to look at her.

Had he ever misjudged the situation. Von Ratched had known she'd be angry, but he'd thought she would verbally spar with him, not try to kill him. It told him that, in one way at least, she was far more afraid of him than she let on. Interesting. Painful, but interesting.

Putting her back in the living-room was out of the question, so he brought her into his bedroom. She wouldn't be happy about that when she woke, but it was her own fault. They would have to work on this aversion of hers, but not yet. Not until he was better able to fend her off if she attacked him again.

He sat awake a long time and looked at her, this violent, stubborn little woman who used even her own fear as a weapon. He was honesty beginning to think he was in love with her.

\----

Ratiri woke with a jerk, for a moment so disoriented he thought he was still in the Institute. He was drenched in sweat, his leg on fire, and just barely managed to avoid sicking up off the side of the bed.

He wasn't at the Institute. This was the spare room in Geezer's DMA apartment -- Gerald had signed off on the move, on the condition that he stay off his leg. He was safe here.

A glance at the clock told him it was a little after two in the morning, and faint moonlight slanted through the window. The fact that this place even _had_ windows had confused him at first, given the garbled explanation he'd had about separate dimensions, but eventually he'd worked out that they weren't real. Still, real or not, it soothed him a little.

He sat up, pushing the damp hair back from his forehead, and fumbled for the bedside lamp. His hand knocked over a stack of notebooks before he found it, and then a warm yellow glow lit up the Spartan room. Katje had foisted a bright quilt on him, but otherwise he hadn't bothered changing it at all. It was only temporary anyway.

Ratiri grabbed his crutches and worked his way to the bathroom, splashing water on his face. When he hobbled out to the kitchen he found Geezer already awake, nursing a glass of whiskey.

"Nightmare?"

"Yes." Ratiri all but collapsed onto a chair. "I need to know when she escapes, Geezer. I _need_ to."

"If I knew, I'd tell you." Geezer lit a cigarette, and shoved the whiskey bottle across the table. Ratiri shouldn't be drinking while on so much medication, but a sip couldn't hurt. "She _will_ escape, though. You'll get her back, son." Geezer gave him a keen look. "You sleep with her at the Institute?" 

Ratiri choked on his drink, his nostrils burning as it shot out his nose. "I did," he admitted, when he stopped coughing enough to speak. "Why?"

"Hope you want kids. You and her are gonna have twins at some point, and I don't think it's very far in the future."

He sputtered even worse, and had to get up to spit in the sink. " _What_? You mean Lorna's up there, and alone _and_ pregnant?"

"Dunno for sure, but you better wrap your mind around the idea, just in case."

Ratiri hobbled back to the table, stunned. He and Katherine had talked about children, but she'd died before they could make any serious plans. He wanted to be a father, but he wasn't sure he could handle it yet. "Does she know this?"

"Can't see why she would," Geezer said, pouring more liquor into his glass. "Though she might by the time she escapes. She's so tiny she'd probably show pretty damn quick."

_Children_ , Ratiri thought, thumping back down onto his chair. _Children._ Lorna had told him that after she lost her first pregnancy, the doctors said she'd never have another. If he'd known otherwise, he would have been more careful. He loved Lorna, but he'd bet she was as unprepared for parenthood as he was. And what an uncertain world to bring a child into. Would it be cursed, like its parents? Would it spend its entirely life unable to go to the outside world with any safety?

"We have to find a way to do a press conference by the end of this week," he said, taking another swig off the bottle. "If she's up there long enough for Von Ratched to figure things out, God only knows what he'll do. Or what she'll do in retaliation."

"Talk to Miranda," Geezer said. "She can light a fire under everyone's asses."

\----

Katje panicked a little, when Ratiri said he wanted to go to the news right away. She didn't think her statement was nearly ready, so she scrambled to find a Dutch translator who could make sure she didn't make any embarrassing mistakes with her English.

She agonized a little over what to wear to meet any executives, too, because she was her, and she knew image could be important. Finally she settled on black slacks, and a burgundy sweater that wasn't too low-cut. Gerald was mystified by her concern over her clothes, but he was a man, and therefore wasn't likely to understand at all.

The BBC was the first network to bite. Britain had come to terms with its cursed better than any other country had yet managed, and were more than happy to pick up what might be the scoop of the decade. 

Miranda accompanied the four to London, and she certainly didn't bother dressing up. Her fatigues were almost a natural extension of her, though; she would have looked very awkward in a suit.

It was a chilly day in London, with high clouds that would burn off later. It was so _strange_ , being in an actual city again, walking damp pavements crowded with people who gave only Miranda a second glance. All around them life went on, in a fashion that looked suspiciously, well, normal. No protestors, no extra police or men in grey suits -- just people, moving to and fro on thousands of different errands, and Katje wondered when and how things had stabilized here.

BBC headquarters was busy as a termite mound, but a guard corralled them before they could get lost. Gerald looked somewhat awkward, and she took his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. She'd forced slacks and a button-down shirt on him, but nothing in the world could have induced Geezer to dress up. At least he'd had a haircut.

Ratiri moved with a strange, grim, nervous energy she'd never seen from him, and she was genuinely afraid he'd hurt someone if things didn't go their way. He'd refused to let Gerald give him a sedative, and now, even with his crutches, he moved in such a predatory way that even Miranda was giving him the hairy eyeball, as Geezer might say. Julifer had scared up a black suit that actually fit him, so at least he _looked_ civilized.

They were led to a conference room that looked -- and even smelled -- expensive. Dove-grey carpeting on the floors, a long hardwood table with a glossy finish, and picture windows looking out over the city.

Three network controllers sat at the table, two men and a woman in conservative suits. Their eyes widened a little when they saw Miranda, and Katje fought a sigh. She liked Miranda, but the woman was not good at dealing with anyone she considered a fool, which seemed to be almost everyone outside the DMA.

"Thank you for coming," the female controller said. Her voice was distinctly Received Pronunciation -- newscaster English, Katje thought. "Please, sit. I understand you have quite a story to tell."

Miranda slung her messenger bag onto the table, taking out notebooks, manila folders full of printouts and satellite images, and a thick sheaf of papers she'd called Von Ratched's file. The three controllers passed them to one another while an aide brought coffee and donuts.

"This is…is all of this _real_?" one of the men asked.

"Unfortunately, yes," Miranda said. "These four escaped that Institute, and now we know where it is." 

"But this doctor, this Von Ratched fellow -- you don't even know how old he is? How is that possible?"

"We're not sure, either. These four have all the personal experience with him. They could tell you a lot more than this file." Miranda glanced at Geezer, who had become their unofficial spokesman.

Geezer sipped his coffee, the harshness of his expression making him look very old. He told them what Von Ratched had done to him personally, turning his own memories against him, and the traumas he'd seen inflicted on others.

Then it was Gerald's turn. "I had no idea what I was getting myself into," he said. "I was more or less drafted -- I had a choice of going to the Institute or a facility in South America, and I took the Institute because of the isolation pay. Nobody told me what was going to happen up there, and at first most of us didn't know what was going on. After the first escape attempt, everybody did."

"What did you do about it?" one of the men asked.

Gerald put his head in his hands. "I tried to protect people," he said wretchedly. "It was all I could do. If I'd tried to openly defy Von Ratched, he would have killed me, or worse."

Katje laid a hand on his shoulder. "You helped," she said. "You did."

"I don't think _any_ of the staff knew just what went on in F wing," Ratiri put in. "So far as I know, Von Ratched didn't let them in there. It was always just him and his subjects." He pulled up his sleeve, revealing a wrist covered in knotted, chewed-up scar tissue, dark and very new. "The things he did to us…he'd hit us with stimuli tailored to our curses, to see what would happen. Nobody who went in there came out whole."

"I was lucky," Katje said. "He use me as bribe for Gerald, to behave. He say he would leave me alone if Gerald did not interfere with what he do to Ratiri and Lorna." She was _not_ going to mention her own method of bribery, not to these stuffy English businesspeople. 

"Lorna is…how we escaped," Ratiri added. "And she's still up there. If she stays too long -- if Von Ratched hurts her too badly -- she might kill everyone up there without meaning to. We're hoping that if we expose him, he'll bolt, and we can rescue everyone when he's gone."

"Either way, people need to know about it," Gerald said. "About _him._ I don't know exactly who bankrolled it, but the Institute was originally funded by our government."

"Originally?" one of the men asked.

Gerald sighed. "Someone decided to shut him down," he said. "I don't know the details, but a military force came to take everything over. Von Ratched killed them all."

The three controllers sat in stunned silence. " _All_ of them?"

"Like we said, he's dangerous," Ratiri said. "Very dangerous. I'm not sure anyone but him knows how powerful he really is."

Another silence followed. "If we run this story, what's to stop him coming after us?" the woman asked.

"Lorna," Ratiri replied. "He knows he can't leave her alone with anyone else, and he won't risk taking her anywhere that would give her an easy chance to escape. He's…fixated on her, and it's definitely not mutual. There's a chance she'll kill him before we ever get there."

"Excuse us a moment," one of the men said, and the three rose and left the room.  
"What will we do if they say no?" Katje asked.

"Try someone else," Miranda said. "Lot of news agencies in the world. I think we've hooked 'em, though."

Sure enough, the trio returned not five minutes later. "We'll run it," the woman said. "I want you to meet with some of our reporters, and work out an interview. This could be a media goldmine -- you'll get all the exposure you can handle."

Katje let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. They wouldn't have to waste time looking elsewhere. The days of the Institute's secrecy were officially numbered.

\----

Von Ratched didn't manage to sleep very long. Pain of an intensity he'd rarely known woke him at four in the morning, and he rose to inspect his wound and make some coffee.

Lorna was still dead to the world, so deeply unconscious she hadn't so much as stirred in the night. He'd need the fortification of caffeine and morphine, if he was to be able to deal with her when she woke. She'd probably throw as much of a temper tantrum as she could muster, the damn stubborn woman.

The wound had bled in the night, but not much, and he washed it carefully when he took a shower. It ought to heal cleanly, but he'd start some antibiotics anyway, just to be safe. He wasn't going to try to deal with the living-room window himself, either -- for one thing, he didn't want to bother with this injury, and for another, so long as it was broken he had an excuse to keep Lorna with him. She wouldn't like that at all, but it was her own fault.

He'd have to be careful not to push her any further for a while, though. He hadn't realized the degree of stress she'd been under, and if he pressed the issue, she'd snap. And for once his curiosity took a back seat, because he didn't want to know what would happen if she did.

While the coffee brewed, he sorted through his kitchen and removed anything she might be able to use as a weapon. A much as he hated plastic utensils, she'd have a hard time trying to murder him with them. All the glass dishes had to go as well, anything she could break to make a sharp object. His razor was electric, but all the bathroom cleaners had to go -- he didn't want her poisoning him or herself. The glass coffee-pot would have to be swapped with a steel carafe.

He regarded the gas stove, and decided it should be disconnected. Von Ratched wouldn't put it past her to turn it on and try to suffocate them both. His days of actually cooking in his kitchen were temporarily over.

_You shouldn't have threatened her like that_ , he thought, laying his steak knives in a box. The worst part was that he should have known better -- by now he knew very well how Lorna handled threats, but to his deep consternation, he hadn't been able to help it. Most of him loved her strength, her willingness to fight, but a small part of him wanted to break her. That bit resented the hold she had on him, and the fact that she refused to admit he owned her. _It_ wanted to beat her into submission, possibly literally, and that too disturbed him.

It was stirring in his mind now, as he downed a cup of coffee and cleared the morphine-haze from his thoughts. It told him he could easily throw over his warped consideration of her, could force her to become addicted to him like a drug, and it was right. The problem was that it would break her, and make her hate him even more than she did already. And to his annoyance, he found the idea deeply distasteful. It went entirely against what few standards he had.

With a scowl he went to check on Lorna, and found her still sound asleep. She'd moved, though, rolling onto her uninjured side. It might be best if she had some privacy when she woke, but he could keep an ear out for any movement. Meanwhile he went to make her some tea, and then into his office to continue working on the blueprints for his replacement Institute.

\----

When Lorna finally came to, she was so disoriented that at first she wasn't sure if she was alive or dead. Her surroundings were completely unfamiliar -- where was she, and how did she get here?

Remembrance of the previous night slammed into her mind like a freight train, and her eyes snapped open. This had to be Von Ratched's room -- that son of a bitch had actually had the gall to sleep next to her after she'd tried to kill him. The thought made her ill, but she was too drugged and too exhausted to summon any real telekinesis.

She really needed to pee, but that would mean she'd have to face the bastard, and she wasn't sure she wouldn't try to kill him again. In her current state she wouldn't stand a chance, and he'd probably just knock her out again.

_Bladder first_ , she thought. _Murder later_. A flailing search along the side of the bed produced her crutch, and she hobbled out to the bathroom.

Thankfully, Von Ratched was nowhere to be seen, so she made it to the bathroom in peace. She had to brush her teeth twice to get the taste of his blood out of her mouth, and she had as thorough a wash as she could with the small sink. There was nothing to be done about the dried blood on her shirt, but oh well.

Much as Lorna wanted to, she couldn't linger in here forever. She was furious with Von Ratched, but though she didn't want to admit it, she was also afraid of him. She'd thought his ability to affect her synapses -- or whatever the hell it was he'd done -- had been killed when he stopped being able to get in her head. Pain didn't scare her, but that…the thought wasn't just nauseating, it was terrifying.

The really hard part was that she couldn’t let on. He'd pounce on any fear she showed, any perceived weakness he could find. He of all people knew how to use shite like that to his advantage.

But on the other hand, maybe she could use it to _her_ advantage. If he thought she was too afraid of him, he might make the mistake of underestimating her again, and give her another legitimate chance to kill him. The question was whether or not she could keep her anger in check long enough for him to buy it. Every time she thought she'd gained control of her temper, Von Ratched did something to set it off again.

She studied her reflection, trying out various expressions. It was a pity she couldn't make herself cry, but tears would probably be overdoing it anyway. Von Ratched knew too much about her to believe she'd cry over much of anything. Lorna had spent so much of her life unwilling to show fear that she wasn't really sure how to do it on purpose -- and if she let it become too real, she ran the risk of it taking her over. What was the line from _Dune_? 'Fear is the mind-killer'. Truer words were never written.

All right. She could do this. She rubbed her eyes a little to make them red, which made her look even paler. She'd get some tea, and let him face her when he was ready. For all she knew, he might be in too much pain to bother her.

A search of his kitchen cabinets produced only two metal mugs, and she smiled grimly, already certain the drawers would be empty. He wasn't stupid, Von Ratched, nor suicidal. That butter knife had probably given him a lot to think about.

When he emerged from his office, she froze. Pretending fear of him wasn't going to be a problem, but resisting the urge to brain him definitely was. She knew her hostility had to be showing in her expression, but she simply couldn't help it.

At least he was moving a bit more slowly than usual, ever so slightly favoring his left side. Oh, she'd hurt him, all right. _Good_. She couldn't hide her satisfaction, either.

Von Ratched paused on sight of her, and she would swear a flicker of guilt crossed his face. He sat facing her at the table, maintaining a careful distance. "I am sorry, Lorna."

"You said that the last time," she said, sipping her tea and trying not to glare at him. "You're a doctor, you ought to recognize the classic signs of an abuser. Remind me again why I ought to have any reason to want to stay here."

Again there was the barest trace of guilt. He seemed relieved that she would verbally parry him, though, like he somehow found it reassuring. "I am…unused to a situation such as ours," he admitted, folding his long fingers on the table before him. "I am going to make mistakes."

_He thinks_ that's _just a mistake?_ Lorna thought incredulously. Some of her disbelief must have showed on her face, for he sighed.

"I am afraid there will be more things you will have to forgive me for," he said quietly.

"Why?" she shot back, unable to keep silent. "You never have told me what's supposedly in this for me. What, exactly, am I meant to get out've this?" Her eyes narrowed, and she went on before he could reply. "My guess is you've not thought've that. What I actually _want_ doesn’t matter. You just give me things to shut me up so I won't gripe at you nonstop."

_Pack it in, Lorna,_ she thought, immediately appalled with herself. Pissing him off wasn't part of her plan.

He said nothing, and she thought it was because for once in his life, he truly didn't know what _to_ say. There was no answer he could give her, because when push came to shove he was a selfish bastard who didn't really care what she thought. What anyone thought.

"I can make you happy, Lorna," he said at last, but even he didn't sound convinced.

"No," she said, letting a little of the hostility leave her voice, "you can't. And I don't think you can honestly say you're happy having me here. For God's sake, Von Ratched, you've gutted your flat to make sure there's nothing in it I can kill you with. Doesn't that tell you anything about how bloody wrong this whole situation is?"

For a moment, Lorna thought she might be getting through to him. There was a bleakness in his expression that was startlingly human, one that told her that deep down, he knew she was right. Consciously or not, he knew full well he was deluding himself, and for that brief moment she almost felt sorry for him.

But it was gone in a blink, and when he reached for her hand there was a worrying level of determination in those pale eyes. "It need not be, if you would cease insisting to yourself that I am the enemy."

She recoiled. She couldn't help it. Even his attempted touch filled her with a fear and loathing that didn't have to be feigned at all. The sheer level of her panic disgusted her -- she was supposed to be using it, not the other way around.

" _Don't,_ " she hissed, retreating and gripping her mug like a weapon. "Just…don't. You made it pretty goddamn clear you could force whatever you felt like, but it wouldn’t be real, and I think you still think you wish it would be. Just…go to work," she said, suddenly exhausted. "Leave me alone."

To her very great surprise, he did. And she was fairly sure she didn't imagine how stricken he looked when he did.

_Round one, Lorna Donovan_ , she thought, before crawling onto the couch in his office and dropping into sleep so deep it was almost a coma.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which much is discovered.

Von Ratched went to F wing, but his mind was not on his work. Mary, the human hovercraft, didn't receive nearly as much attention as she should -- something she was probably grateful for.

Lorna's flinch had disturbed him. He'd scared her enough times before now, but she'd weaponized that fear, turned it back against him. This was something new -- something very, very bad. If she was afraid enough to so blatantly betray it to him…well, for one thing, he was sure she'd try to kill him again. Sleeping in his apartment would not be a wise course of action.

For the first time, he truly wondered just what the hell he'd gotten himself into. He'd known from the start this wouldn't be easy, but now he was honestly questioning whether or not it was even possible. He'd never given up on anything in his life, but Lorna was…Lorna.

Perhaps he should move her to her own apartment for a while. A Spartan apartment, with nothing she could turn into a weapon, but somewhere she could sleep in peace. She could continue sharing meals with him, and he could deal with her fear and aversion in tiny increments. Very, very tiny increments.

Yes. That might work. With a potential solution, he could turn his full attention to Mary. Even if it did mean he needed his earplugs.

\----

The London group returned to the DMA that evening, traveling through a Door hidden in an ancient sewer. Ratiri was exhausted and his leg was killing him, but he was far too wired to sleep.

The animal in him wanted to pace, but Gerald put a firm kibosh on that. The four escapees went to have dinner in Katje's apartment, but Ratiri was so jittery he couldn't even eat much.

"You're like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs," Geezer said. "What gives? We're going on the air in three days."

"I don't know. It's just…something's not right." More specifically, something with Lorna wasn't right. He still had his connection to her mind, even if he was much too far away to read it, and something was so wrong he could sense it even here. And it filled him with a formless dread he could neither banish nor ignore.

"Here I thought I was the precog," Geezer said. "Any idea what it is?"

"No," Ratiri said, "but -- how soon can we mobilize, once this interview is done?"

"Miranda's ready to go now, but she wants to give it a day or two, so Von Ratched's got time to bug out."

"No." His tone was so savage that even Katje stared at him. "It will take the better part of a day to even get there, right? I want to go on -- what do you call it? Reconnaissance?" 

"Ratiri, you'd blow the whole thing," Geezer said. "If Von Ratched caught you -- and you know he would -- he'd see everything. I know this is hard, but you've gotta wait."

"Do you have any _idea_ what you're asking of me?" Ratiri demanded, the words almost a snarl.

"Yes," Geezer said, suddenly looking very bleak, "I do. You're just gonna have to trust me. This isn't gonna be fun for anybody, but trying to change the future never ends well. Sit down, have a drink, and plan out what you and Lorna'll do when she gets back to us. And remember what I told you."

Kids. Right. Ratiri did as he was bidden, but it couldn't fully take his mind off his dread. He thought of a little house in Scotland or Ireland, somewhere in the country where Lorna could have a big garden. Nothing big, nothing fancy, because neither of them were fancy people. A nursery big enough to be a proper bedroom when the kids got older, with a dormer-window facing east to catch the morning sun.

It would have a woodstove in the kitchen, just like her grandmother's cottage, and a fireplace in the living-room, like the house he'd grown up in. A big kitchen -- he liked to cook, even if Lorna might not -- with a walk-in pantry.

He could open a private practice, and she could go back to bartending if she felt like it. The should live near enough to other people so the kids could have some playmates, and be able to walk to school. Maybe near Lorna's sister, they would know the herd of cousins.

And they could heal, the pair of them, far away from Alaska and the Institute. It was a thought he had to hold onto, for the sake of his own sanity.

\----

When Lorna woke, she found she was still afraid, and that royally pissed her off. And she had no idea what to do.

The living-room would be a refrigerator, so that left her to explore Von Ratched's office. He had a whole bookshelf of books bound in dark leather, their titles rendered in gold leaf, and one caught her eye -- _Gray's Anatomy._

_Synapses_ , she thought, struggling to her feet and hobbling over to the shelves on her crutch. She knew synapses had to do with the brain, and obviously they could be manipulated. Von Ratched was a little too good at it, but if he could do it, Lorna could learn. And then he'd be in for a whole new world of pain.

Apparently she had two types to choose from, chemical and electrical. She had no idea what to do with the chemical ones, but electrical sounded promising. Synapses essentially talked to one another, so she thought he was maybe using his to manipulate hers. Wasn't _that_ bloody creepy.

If that was the case, though, it might work to her advantage. She didn't know how to connect the two, but if he did it for her, she could hit him with everything she had. The thought that she had a defense, even if it was only hypothetical, comforted her a little. If he reneged on his promise to leave her alone -- and Lorna was sure he would, once he got too impatient -- he was in for a very nasty surprise.

She flipped through the book and read about veins and organs, too, so she'd know where to stab or bite the next time. The human body was a fascinating thing, even if she was currently only looking for ways to shut it down.

Her fingers traced the diagram of the heart, the paper cool and smooth beneath them. Maybe she could _stop_ his heart, hold it still with her telekinesis long enough to kill him. Even Von Ratched had to sleep sometime, and if he was stupid enough to do it in the same room as her, it would be the last thing he'd ever do.

Lorna smiled grimly. Maybe, when everything was over, she'd go to medical school herself. Knowing how to manipulate a human body could come in very, very handy.

She hadn't been lying when she told him she was not an inherently good person. Ratiri wouldn't dream of doing what she was now contemplating, but Lorna was a survivor, and sometimes a person had to do some nasty things to survive. After the previous night, the thought of killing Von Ratched was not even remotely horrifying. If he was going to ignore the standards he claimed to have, there was no reason she shouldn't do the same.

With that thought in mind, she put the book away and hobbled into the kitchen to find something to eat. For the first time she was hungry for real food, and she found a bit of leftover steak in the fridge. Once she'd microwaved it she found there was nothing to cut it with, so she ate it with her hands, tearing at the tender, juicy meat like an animal. It was only when she wiped her mouth on her sleeve that she realized she was still smiling.

\----

As soon as Von Ratched reached his apartment that evening, he knew something was wrong.

Lorna sat at the dining-room table, her crutch propped up beside her and a book open in front of her. Her hair was damp -- had she honestly tried to take an actual shower by herself? He hoped she hadn't soaked her cast.

Something in her posture made him very wary. She looked entirely too calm, and he was smart enough to know that couldn't be a good thing. If her fear of him lingered, she didn't show it at all.

"Good evening, Lorna," he said, taking off his lab coat, and when she looked up at him her expression actually chilled him for a moment.

"Hi, Von Ratched. I ate your leftovers."

She'd managed leftovers? That had to be a good sign. Keeping down solid food was a definite step in the right direction.

"I have been thinking," he said, pulling out a chair and sitting facing her. "You have too little privacy, and now that you are well enough, I will give you your own apartment."

That obviously startled her, though she tried not to show it. "Why?" she asked suspiciously.

Von Ratched sighed. "Believe me or not, I do want you to be happy here, and after last night, I feel I owe you. I know you will never rest easy now if you share quarters with me, and I cannot say that I blame you."

Lorna closed her book. "What's the catch?"

"There is no catch. You will continue to share meals with me, and in time I will take you to physical therapy, but your space will be your own."

"And how long'll _that_ last?"

"Until you no longer want it to. I am not trying to force anything on you, but after last night I would understand if you do not believe me. I know I scared you, Lorna, and I do not want to do that again."

She bristled at that, as he'd known she would. She disliked showing fear as much as he detested showing anger, and he'd certainly done so last night. To be quite honest, he didn't trust his control around her, in more ways than one.

"That is no sign of weakness on your part," he added. "It is only common sense. I could have hurt you very badly, and I don't want you to think I would ever do so again. I will send your books and movies with you, and grant you other requests within reason. I know you feel like a prisoner here, and that is not my intent."

She still looked suspicious, but he'd known she would be. Lorna wasn't a woman who trusted easily, and after last night she had no _reason_ to trust him. It was frustrating, but he could admit it was partly his fault. He ought to have just defended himself, and left the threats out of it.

"All right," she said at last, and there was a calculation in her eyes that Von Ratched didn't like. She was plotting some fresh hell for him, but she would be on painkillers for a while yet -- he didn't really need to worry until she was clear-headed.

"Good. Do you think you could eat again?"

Lorna gave this due consideration. "Yes," she said, and looked at him very strangely, "I think I could."

\----

Miranda, Geezer quickly decided, must be one of those people who rarely slept. At two in the morning she dragged them to the DMA's meteorology center, a room not unlike the one that controlled the Trees.

"We have a problem," she said, pointing to some colored blobs that meant nothing to him. "Broadcast goes live in three days, right? Well, one bleedin' mother of a storm's gonna hit the Institute then. We could get there with our weather-manipulators, but Von Ratched will be stuck like a bug in a bottle. I need to know -- d'you think weather would slow down his telepathy any?"

"Doubt it," Geezer said. "On the other hand, he wouldn't be looking for an attack in a storm -- unless he knows what you've got here. How much _does_ he know about your organization?"

Miranda shrugged. "Not sure. It's probably safest to assume he knows too much. The assassins we've sent after him over the years were purposely lower-level on the information chain, but I'm sure he knows whatever they did."

Geezer sighed. "You thinking what I’m thinking?"

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Unfortunately, I'm sure I am. We can't go right away. Not without severe risk of blowing the whole damn thing."

"Ratiri's gonna kill us both over this," he muttered, lighting a cigarette.

"What's with him?" Miranda asked. "Most of the time he seems reasonable, and then he'll go and almost bite someone's head off."

"Von Ratched did something to him. Kid wants to go with us when we do go north, and we'd better let him. For his sake and everyone else's." He rubbed his eyes, wondering if he ought to continue. "Seen some of the results of this. It ain't gonna be pretty for too many people." 

Miranda rose and got a bottle of scotch from a filing cabinet. "What happens?"

"I can't tell you," he said bitterly. Never in his life had his curse made him feel more alone than it did now. "Tell you this: we've got a few years before the shit really hits the fan in the world, but it'll be all the worse when it does. We're not gonna catch Von Ratched, lass," he said. "I know that much. But I'm betting that's no surprise to you."

"We might not catch him _yet_ ," she said firmly, "but we will. I'll punch the future's lights out if I have to."

She'd try, too, if Geezer was any judge. He knew better, though -- for now, Von Ratched was out of their league. Lorna was awfully strong, but Von Ratched was a crafty bastard, and a careful one. Lorna was no dummy, and she had a mean streak in her, but Von Ratched was evil.

No, they wouldn't catch him and Lorna wouldn't kill him, but unless Geezer was interpreting things entirely wrong, _something_ was going to damn near break him.

Unfortunately, that would only make him more dangerous.

\----

For the first time since she'd been shot, Lorna slept deeply without the aid of drugs.

Her apartment was pretty bare, but she had a real bed now, one she could stretch out on. It helped that nothing in here smelled like Von Ratched -- she'd bet that summer-storm scent was partially what had made her so jittery. Once upon a time she'd enjoyed the smell of an oncoming thunderstorm, but she thought she never would again.

There was a _real_ storm on the way, if the sky was any indication. She'd fallen asleep so early that she woke at first light, and made her way over to her bedroom window. The clouds were low and heavy and leaden, wind blasting the snow already on the ground. It moaned around the building, and she shivered. Escaping in this was going to be even worse than she'd thought. Unless she was seriously lucky, she might freeze to death -- but it was better than staying here.

She took a long hot bath, careful to keep her cast out of the tub. As much as she hated to admit Von Ratched could be right about anything, he was about this -- she could breathe so much easier here, in this place with no hint of him.

Unfortunately, she still had to have breakfast with him, but he was unusually reserved. Maybe he really did feel genuinely guilty. Oh, he'd apologized the last time he'd hurt her, but this time he was putting his money where his mouth was. And that might make her job easier.

When he'd cleared the table, he sat again and gave her a long, measured look. "I am going to give you something, Lorna," he said. "I have asked for your trust, yet placed none in you. What I will bring to your apartment are my personal records -- in them are things no one else knows about me. I know so much of you, yet you know nothing of me, and that is unfair." His expression hardened a little. "I _am_ trusting you. Do not abuse it."

Lorna stared at him, completely floored. What the hell was _this_? Had he lost his mind? He ought to know better than to tell her anything at all of his past, let alone the whole thing. Good grief, he really must feel guilty. "Why?" she asked, unable to help herself. "I tried to kill you two days ago."

"I drove you to it," he said dryly. "I should not have said what I did, and I certainly should not have _done_ what I did. This is the only way I can think of to attempt to make it up to you."

She blinked. Of course he was trying to manipulate her, to kick off that Stockholm Syndrome he'd admitted was his goal, but there was genuine contrition in his words. And that troubled her. Contrition and apology were entirely against his nature, and they made him unpredictable. "You're right on that score," she said. "All right. I'll keep your secrets." It wasn't as though she had anyone to tell -- not yet, at least.

"Good," he said, rising. "I will have lunch sent to your apartment. Going through it all will take quite a while. Do you speak French or German?"

"A little French. No German."

"Then I will give you dictionaries. Go back to your apartment, and I will meet you there."

She went, more troubled than ever. This was an enormous amount of faith Von Ratched was placing with her, and why? He could just pick and choose what he wanted her to see, weed out all the terrible things, but if he did that he'd probably have precious little to show her. Why would he give her anything that would confirm what a monster he was? It was a terrible way to try to Stockholm her -- but then, Lorna would bet he'd never tried it before. For once in his life, he really didn't know what he was doing, and she could use that to her advantage, too. Somehow.

To her surprise, it took him two trips to bring her everything, stacking the boxes on her plain coffee-table, and he left her with a very strange look -- locking the door behind him, of course. Bastard.

The boxes themselves weren't what she had expected. Some were steel, but others were polished wood that looked very old. She picked the one that looked the oldest, and started to dig.

\----

Von Ratched, being him, did indeed have ulterior motives for giving Lorna all those things. He really _was_ entrusting her with some very personal aspects of his life, but he knew damn well that trust was misplaced. Some of what she would find in there would make her bolt, and he wanted to get her inevitable escape attempt out of the way.

But otherwise, he was truly being honest with her. The only thing he'd held back were the drawings and his journal, because he knew she wasn't ready to see those yet. Even he knew they would be far too creepy for her to handle at this point.

\----

At first, Lorna had a difficult time believing what she was reading.

At the top of the first box was a birth certificate, intricately written in calligraphy and yellow with age. It was in German, so she couldn't read most of it, but only a little of it mattered: the name, _Raoul Hermann von Ratched_ , and the date, _28 Dezember 1898._

What. The. Fuck.

She thought it must be for some ancestor, until she opened an envelope containing a stack of baby pictures. The first were very old, showing an infant in a frothy white christening gown, held by a Slavic-looking woman in a simple maid's uniform. In the next the child was old enough to sit up, a boy of maybe two in a formal suit. A fair-haired child with eyes that were eerily pale even for a black-and-white photograph -- she could have dismissed that as an ancestor, too, but even at such a young age, the kid's expression was pure Von Ratched. There was nothing childlike in it, none of the innocence a toddler ought to have. Those pale eyes stared at the camera with a very adult directness, and it was so creepy she turned it upside down when she put it aside.

There were more of the child as he grew progressively older, all stiff formal portraits, and the more Lorna saw, the less able she was to consider them pictures of Von Ratched's great-grandfather or something. Not only were the features too exact, the expression was identical, growing stronger as the boy's age progressed. It was precisely the one Von Ratched often had now -- arrogant, superior, regarding the world as though he owned it.

When the boy hit his teenage years, the portraits were replaced by candid shots of what was probably Berlin -- a post-World War I Berlin, with areas of grand architecture beside bombed-out rubble. They seemed ordinary enough, which was why the next one was even more appalling.

It was a woman, a middle-aged woman who bore a striking resemblance to Von Ratched -- and who was very obviously dead. Her features were slack, her eyes staring sightlessly, and her neck was bent at a horrible angle. Lorna flipped the snap over and read, in Von Ratched's tidy handwriting, _Mater, gestorben 30 Dezember 1916._

She didn't need to consult the dictionary to know what _that_ meant. Good God, not only had he killed his mother, he'd taken pictures of her corpse. Lorna put the photo down and shuddered, fighting an urge to be sick. She had to take a break and get some water before she tackled the next box.

That appeared to be his medical school records, as well as journals he'd kept at the time. To her relief, most of them were in French and English, so she didn't have to waste time translating word by word. A lot of the entries were surprisingly ordinary, but in a way they fascinated her, for they were living history.

He wrote of his classes, made sardonic comments on professors and classmates, along with observations of Berlin's horrific winter weather. They painted a picture of the man she'd come to know -- arrogant, imperious, with a somewhat vicious and vindictive sense of humor. It certainly didn't improve her opinion of him, and she wondered if he'd thought it somehow would.

She came upon an entry from spring of 1917, one that was classic Von Ratched.

_I do believe my cellular biology professor is an idiot. Without his notes the man is utterly adrift, and even with them half his information is outdated. When I raised the question of cells in relation to aging, he rather tartly inquired if he was teaching the course, or I. Given his intellectual inadequacy, perhaps I should be. I said so, too, whereupon he threw me out of his course._

_I am no prognosticator, but I believe he will come to regret his rashness. Although not for long._

Unsurprisingly, an obituary was pasted to the other side of the page, and Lorna didn't bother translating it. How nice to know that even back then he'd been a murderous arsehole.

He was still a student when the influenza pandemic of 1918 began. She wasn't surprised to find he'd been fascinated rather than afraid -- a fascination that soon turned to annoyance.

_Damn medical ethics to hell. What fool will treat the symptoms without attempting to discern their source? If a patient is to die anyway, why can we not use them to discover the cause of this hellish disease? Either way they die; we might at least glean something useful from them. But no, we are restricted to endless, useless samples of blood and sputum._

_Medicine claims to have come so far in the last century, and yet we still know next to nothing about our own bodies, which remain at the mercy of invaders too small to be seen. This influenza is laying waste to much of the world, and for all our bright modern equipment and techniques we are all but helpless. I see the fear in their minds, even the minds of the greatest; that one day soon it will not be a nameless patient coughing up pieces of their lungs, but they themselves. They know -- none better -- that we have no real method of containing this pestilence; that, but for the grace of God or chance, it could be them. And yet they cling to Hippocrates like an anchor, mouthing platitudes about the sanctity of human life._ ‘First do no harm’, _indeed._

_It sickens me. We are_ doctors; _few in the world know better than we how cheap, how precarious life is. Why should we hold the life of the individual sacred? Nothing else does, not disease nor nature nor even, I suspect, God himself, assuming such a being even exists. The world is filled with mysteries men dare not unravel, and all because they are afraid. Fear, not pride, is the besetting sin of much of humanity; what we could accomplish, if it were not for that weakness._

_It is a weakness I refuse to indulge in. One day I swear that others will see as I do, and then we shall see what greatness the human mind is capable of. I should not be surprised if we someday conquered Death itself._

Lorna stared at this entry for quite some time, more than a little chilled. She knew Von Ratched had precious little regard for his patients, beyond their experimental usefulness, but to read those words -- he was not yet twenty when he had written them. There was something almost inhuman in his writing, a combination of cold detachment and fervent, passionate conviction. His words held the arrogance of youth, but Lorna knew well what formidable intelligence lay behind them.

She also wasn't surprised to find he'd joined the Nazis, but she was startled to find he'd had no use for them as people.

I _am curious to see how long this so-called Third Reich can sustain itself. Hitler is a deeply unstable man, far more than I think even he knows, and his ideas of a 'master race' are patent nonsense. For now, however, their patronage makes my life easier, so I will allow them to go to hell in their own fashion, unaided by myself._

A list of names followed, none of which she recognized, with dates beside them. A consultation of the dictionary told her they were all the names of assassins he'd killed. At least someone in Nazi Germany had realized how dangerous he was.

On April 17, 1944, he wrote, 

_I am fed up with these fools who would own the world at the expense of my work, and I will tolerate their idiocy no longer. The Allies are about to find a great deal of information, and dear Hitler will lose what little sanity he still possesses. They have crossed me one time too many._

That made Lorna pause for a very long time, staring out the window. She knew now why Von Ratched had given her all this, or part of why. He was telling her indirectly that she stood no chance against him -- that she would be going up against the man who had toppled the Third Reich, so she shouldn't bother trying. In other words, it was yet another threat.

The thought infuriated her. Oh, he was one arrogant son of a bitch, and if anything was to be his downfall, that was it. She'd make sure of it.

But there was a great deal more, and she forced herself to read it. There might be something useful.

He'd found asylum in America once he'd fled Germany, and his correspondence told her the biggest thing she'd been wondering about: why the hell he was still _alive._

_I have done a great deal of research on cell decay and its relation to the aging process. Thus far I have managed to slow it in myself, though I have not halted it. I believe that in time I can produce those results in other subjects, and there is much else I could do if given the proper tools._

Someone in the U.S. government had given Von Ratched sanctuary, so that he could try to find a way to live forever. Knowing what she did of him, Lorna wondered how many people he'd telepathically strong-armed to get what he wanted. For Christ's sake, he'd spent over seventy years experimenting on people in secret, under auspices of the American government.

She'd be lying if she said this didn't daunt her. Of course it did -- she was neither crazy nor stupid, and now she really knew what she was dealing with. This was a man who had destroyed a government for annoying him, and she was…her. It would be fair to say she hadn't really accomplished anything in her life. Yes, she was daunted, all right, but she was also severely pissed off.

And there was more still, some much more recent. She pried a black leather notebook from the bottom of the fourth box, not sure she wanted to know what was in it. The paper was heavy, expensive, and filled with neat lines written in black ink.

_Lorna continues to confound me. This is a woman who could be near my equal, yet she fights me at every turn._

What the--? Had Von Ratched meant to leave this with her? Probably, although she couldn't begin to guess why.

_She steadfastly refuses to acknowledge her own unpleasant side, the root of her temper, even while she embraces using it. She would never, I think, acknowledge our similarities, small though they are. Never in my life have I met anyone so stubborn._

_There are things I would say to her, but I do not know how. For once in my life, eloquence fails me, because I have never before been in this position. It is not as though she would believe me anyway. However much it irks me to admit it, I love the woman, and I have no idea what to do about it._

Lorna slammed the book shut, and actually growled. Oh, she knew what he was up to. It was half a threat, yes, but he was also trying to convince her he was some tortured soul unable to express his _feelings_. Just how stupid did he think she was? The idea that he expected her to buy it was beyond insulting. Never in her life had she wanted to hit anyone as much as she did in that moment.

_Not yet. Save it for when you can use it._ He expected her to run, so she wouldn't. Otherwise, she was sure he'd think she would either fear him or feel sorry for him, because evidently he thought she was a complete moron. Her total indignation kept her from fearing him as much as she might have done. What an absolute _twat._

He'd expect some reaction out of her come dinner time, so she'd best figure out how to disappoint him. She was so offended she might not be able to feign anything else -- the big challenge was going to be avoiding breaking something over his head. She'd learned something today, all right -- when she did take the son of a bitch out, she'd be doing the world a bigger favor than she'd thought.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has trigger warnings out the wazoo: violence, offscreen rape (with onscreen, non-explicit physical and mental aftermath), contemplated suicide, and a bit of gore.

To Von Ratched's surprise, the Institute remained quiet. He'd been so sure Lorna would try some kind of flashy, destructive escape attempt, but there was nothing. And that worried him a little. Until recently her temper had made her somewhat predictable, even when she'd reined it in, but in the last fortnight she'd confounded him utterly. He'd thought her simple in one way, that she was a creature of impulse who could not maintain calculation for long, but she was shaping up to be more devious than he'd expected -- and certainly more than he liked.

He was curious almost to distraction as he assembled dinner -- roast chicken and rosemary, with a side of salad. The produce had been frozen, unfortunately, but it would be decent enough. By now he ought to be able to give her some wine, but Lorna didn't seem like a wine drinker. Perhaps he'd make her a Tequila Sunrise for dessert.

When he went to fetch her, he found his boxes in total disarray, papers spread out across the carpet. Lorna sat on the couch, a book open on her lap, her expression unreadable. No disgust, as he might have expected, no disbelief or fear. There was just…blankness, a carefully-cultivated poker face. Interesting. Troubling, but interesting.

She set the book aside, and used her crutch to pull herself to her feet. "You've certainly given me some food for thought," she said, hobbling toward the door. "And answered a few things I'd wondered about."

Von Ratched stared at her. Where was the Lorna he thought he knew? It was dawning on him, very belatedly, that he didn't really _know_ her at all. Those unnaturally green eyes stared up at him with a kind of forced calm that was somewhat disturbing. He wondered how right she'd been, when she'd told him he was more interested in molding her into his own creature than he was in learning about her as a person. "Come along," he said. "You must be hungry."

She followed him in silence, leaning her crutch against the table when she sat. Her injuries had to be paining her, but she gave little sign of it -- only a slight wince when she scooted her chair in. And she remained silent when he brought the food.

"It's all true, isn't it?" she asked, once he'd sat down himself. "All your history."

"It is," he said, picking up his fork. "I thought it only fair you know where I have come from."

"And where you're going," she said, taking a bite. "See, I think I've figured something out about you."

He arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"You're a bloody genius, but I already knew that. Christ, you might be the smartest man on the planet, but your life, your interests -- they're very narrow. And you'll never change, because you can't. Oh, you also think I'm an idiot."

Her words had been flat up until that last sentence, which practically dripped venom. _Where_ had she gotten that idea? He would never have entrusted her with all that if he thought her a fool. The rest of her assessment was unflattering, but it was her last statement that rankled. He could address the rest later.

Lorna gulped some tea, and glowered at him. "One, I recognize a silent threat when I see it, and two, that bloody black book've yours. Did you really think I'd buy it for a second?"

For the first time in his life, Von Ratched truly froze. Black book…good God, had he really left _that_ in there? Like the drawings, she hadn't been ready to see that yet. "You read it?" he asked quietly, suddenly and irrationally angry.

"'Course I did," she snorted. "You gave it to me. Did you _really_ expect me to fall for that tripe? Just how stupid d'you think I _am_ , you twat? You must be used to dealing with some total eejits, if you think for one moment I'd buy it."

He gripped his fork so hard his knuckles went white. "You were not meant to see that," he said. "Not now and not ever." It was alarming, how very angry he was. It was his own fault, but that only infuriated him even more.

She rolled her eyes. "Then maybe you shouldn't have given it to me. But you did it on purpose, didn't you? You think I'm moron enough to think I'm seeing the real you, or some shite like that. I have to say I'm disappointed, Von Ratched. I'd credited you with a little more subtlety than that."

Her words were bad enough, but it was the tone that got to him. Biting, sarcastic, dryly vicious -- she sounded a lot like _him_. What was he turning her into?

He forced his anger down, locked it away in the chilly part of his mind that could examine it later, in private. "I would never have shown you that on purpose, Lorna," he said. "Its contents are things I never meant to tell you, precisely because you would not believe me. You say I am trying to manipulate you, and to an extent you are right -- just not in this."

He couldn't read her expression at all, and for the thousandth time he cursed his inability to read her mind. Part of him wanted to shake her, to rattle some sense into that pigheaded brain of hers, but that would be the absolute worst thing he could do. That stare of hers was actually unnerving him a little.

"If you were anyone else, I'd feel sorry for you," Lorna said at last, sipping her tea. "You're fighting a losing battle, and I think part've you knows it. I _know_ part've you does, after reading that. You're too smart to think this'll ever work."

Von Ratched fought a sigh, knowing there was no arguing with her right now. "Eat your dinner," he said at last. "We can discuss this later."

She quirked an eyebrow at him, but for once in her life did as she was told.

\----

Ratiri didn't think he'd ever been so nervous in his life. Even dealing with Von Ratched hadn't unsettled him to this degree. 

At least he wasn't the only one. The four escapees waited in the wings for their interview on the Morning Hour, awkward in formal clothes and jittery from too much caffeine. Only Katje seemed calm, standing there in a black blouse and a burgundy skirt that was actually long enough to be decent. Her face was a picture of serenity, but more surprisingly, her aura was, too. He'd had to pick so much grey worry out of Geezer's and Gerald's that his hands still stung, but Katje was actually looking _forward_ to this. At least someone was.

The guys before them exited the stage, and Ratiri drew a deep breath, trying to slow his pounding heart. Butterflies were holding a rave in his stomach, and his palms were damp with sweat.

Katje gave his hand a brief, reassuring squeeze before they headed out, and her resolve steeled him. He stood straight as they filed to the long couch beside the anchors' desk, his hands steady as he sat.

He glanced at the other two. Gerald was obviously terrified in spite of his attempts to appear calm, but Geezer was outwardly composed, even if his aura wasn't. Katje had cajoled him into wearing a suit, and for once he'd had a proper shave. He was worlds away from the old wino who had first appeared at the Institute; he had the bearing of a military man, his stern expression giving nothing away.

The female host, a pretty woman with a sunny yellow aura, dark hair, and a distinct Estuary accent, welcomed them. "These four are members of the group we now call the altered, who have escaped an experimental facility in the state of Alaska. They've come to tell us their story. Here we have Ratiri Duncan, Katje DaVries, Gerald Hansen, and Geezer." She said Geezer's name with a hint of confusion, as everyone did. "Ratiri, you left for America from the U.K.?"

He nodded. "From London, actually. I was working at Great Ormond Street when I developed my…ability. At the time I didn't think it was safe to remain, so I fled to Canada. Looking at everything now, I think I might have been better off if I'd stayed here. Things have certainly changed."

"That they have. Tell us how you were sent to the Institute."

He did, sparing the audience the more gruesome details. He explained his curse, wisely leaving out the fact that he could use it to make people hallucinate. He showed off the ugly scars on his wrists, which made both hosts wince.

It went down the line like that, buy Ratiri didn't listen -- he was too relieved to have finished his tale. Hopefully he wouldn't have to tell it again.

The hosts and many of the audience members looked deeply disturbed by the time they were all through. "And you say there are people still up there?" the male host asked.

"Dozens," Katje said grimly. "And we do not know what Von Ratched may have done to them since we run away. He cannot be secret any longer -- the world had to know what he is and what he does. He lives to be secret, to work in shadows. We must hit him with spotlight."

Ratiri caught sight of some crew member gesturing frantically offstage. The man's aura was brilliant orange, but one didn't need to be able to see it to know how excited he was. Finally he ran out and whispered in the male host's ear.

" _What?_ "

More whispering. "Apparently we have a caller," the host said, sounding bewildered beneath his veneer of professionalism. "She says her name is Lorna Donovan. I'm putting her on speakerphone. Lorna, can you hear us?"

"Of course I can. I'm not bloody deaf." 

The sound of her voice was like music to Ratiri's ears, and he let out a relieved sigh. "Lorna, are you all right?"

"Sure God, allanah, it's good to hear you. I'm fine, but it'll be a while before I can really walk on this bloody leg. Listen, I don't know how long I've got before Von Arsehole figures out I've broken into his office, but if you come up here, _be careful._ The bastard's harder to kill than a goddamn cockroach, and I'm not sure I'll be able to manage it any time soon. He's wounded, but it's not slowing him down much."

"What did you do?" Katje asked, looking dazed.

"Stabbed him with a butter knife. I must've missed his lung, and now he won't let me have real utensils."

The female host choked, and Ratiri smiled humorlessly in spite of his rush of worry. That was Lorna all over.

"I'll see what else I can do -- oh, shite, I think I've got to --"

A loud slam overrode her words, and Ratiri jumped. He wasn't the only one, either -- Katje twitched and made a small, strangled squeak.

"There's no use giving out at me, y' twat." Lorna's voice had gone tinny, as though she'd dropped the phone. "You missed the good part anyway. Everybody knows -- you put that the fuck down, or I'll bite off your other fuckin' ear."

Something huge crashed, and the shatter of glass overloaded the phone's speaker, right before everything went silent.

" _Shit_." Geezer jumped to his feet. "Miranda's gotta get everything --" 

"On it," Katje said, hurrying offstage. Gerald fled after her, leaving Ratiri to put his head in his hands. 

"Not the way I thought this interview would go. With any luck, we can come back with good news. If we're not lucky, we might all die up there."

"Do you have to go, personally?" the female host asked. Both of them had lost much of their professional masks, for once too startled to retain equanimity in the face of total weirdness.

"Lorna's out there," he said. "Of course I do. I'll bring her to meet you, if Von Ratched doesn't kill her first. Excuse me." A fleeting part of him felt guilty for abandoning the broadcast so abruptly, but he had bigger things to worry about. He loosened his tie as he hobbled after the others as best he could, and wound up panting by the time he caught up with them.

"Come on back and get changed," Miranda said. "I've got some choppers on the way, and we'll take off after them as soon as we can. That was some stunt Lorna pulled with the phone."

"I hope she's not going to pay too dearly for it," Ratiri muttered.

\----

Lorna was hoping the same thing, but she wasn't counting on it. Goddamn Von Ratched, why did he have to come to this office in the middle of the night? He ought to still be torturing someone, for fuck's sake. Of all the days….

She'd broken the window on sheer instinct, and frigid, snow-filled air blasted inward and hit her like a slap. Von Ratched completely ignored it -- she'd never, ever seen him this angry. His eyes glittered like a demon's in the flicker of the cracked TV screen, his face a livid white -- if she didn't kill him now, he'd surely kill her. There was little rationality at all in those ungodly eyes, little more than a level of rage she recognized far too well, for she'd felt it so often herself.

He lunged for her, but she somehow flailed away, pain shooting through her leg as she scrambled over the back of the couch. She'd had a dose of morphine, but that was hours ago; it was only adrenaline that kept the pain from outright crippling her.

"How did you get in here, Lorna?" he asked, and she could see he was hanging onto his control by a very thin thread.

"Telekinesis, dumbass," she said, hauling herself properly upright. Her heart was hammering, her every instinct poised for fight, not flight; if she didn't end this, it would end her. "You knew locking me up wouldn't work."

"I drugged you," he said, standing very, very still. 

"Former junkie, remember?" Lorna shot back. "You quit dosing me high enough to do any good days ago. You just won't stop underestimating me, will you?"

Von Ratched remained still, staring at her. Never had he looked so predatory, and that was really saying something. He didn't seem to notice the cold at all, though she was shivering so hard she thought her bones might shatter. "I have given you so much, and you throw my generosity back in my face at every turn. You are _mine_ , Lorna Donovan, and I think it is time I teach you that."

But Lorna wasn't really listening. Her focus was on the shattered glass, the slivers that were all that remained of the window. Her telekinesis hurled them at him with all the force she could muster, the shards glittering like hail in the TV's uneven glow. It was safety glass, too blunt to hurt him, but it distracted him long enough for her to try something worse.

"I'll return your generosity, you twat," she ground out through clenched teeth, and sought his synapses with brute force. She threw every ounce of her own pain at him, every bit of agony real or remembered that she could summon. The cold of the air and the heat of her wrath fed it, the depth of hatred she felt for this monster who dared call himself human.

To her amazement, Von Ratched actually cried out. Oh, she was hurting him, and she used his distraction to hurl the TV at him. It shattered with a satisfying crash, and she snarled like an enraged animal as she launched herself back over the couch. His throat had a date with her teeth, and this time she'd make damn sure it was fatal.

She plowed into him so hard she knocked him down, punching his wounded shoulder. Her own injuries ceased to be relevant, their pain shoved aside; she'd be in agony later, but that would be _later_. For now, she had a job to do.

Her fingers tore at the stitches in his neck, rewarded by the nauseating, coppery heat of his blood, and she sank her teeth into the scab like a mad vampire. It stuck in her teeth and made her gag, but it wasn't nearly enough to stop her.

Von Ratched's retaliation, on the other hand, was. She didn't know what it cost him to do it, but he hit her mind with a brick of terrible, all-consuming _need_ , momentarily overpowering her rage. It was only momentary, but it was enough to let him hit her hard enough to send her vision grey, dark sparkles of pain dancing before her eyes. It made a horrible counterpoint to her forced desire, and she lashed out blindly with both her hands and her telekinesis, desperately trying to fight off this torture that was unlike anything she had ever known.

And it halfway worked. His hold on her synapses ebbed a little, enough for Lorna's fingers to claw along his face, searching for his eyes. Blunt though her nails were, they gouged bloody furrows across his cheeks, and it took her a moment to realize she was laughing -- laughter that sounded mad even to her.

One of his hands closed around her throat, his fingers so long he only needed one hand, and the dark sparkles were back. Only by kicking him in his bad shoulder did she free herself, and then she was left wheezing, trying to choke down oxygen through a throat on raw fire. She was perilously dizzy, and that gave Von Ratched opportunity to hit her yet again, this time so hard her consciousness took a brief holiday.

When it came back Lorna found they were in his apartment, which her subconscious had been busy wrecking while her conscious mind was out. The last thing she was aware of, before darkness took her completely, was Von Ratched ripping her T-shirt.

"Wait--" she tried, and then there was…nothing.

\----

Lorna's return to coherence was slow, a gradual, unwilling sharpening of awareness. Her battered psyche tried to remain submerged, but pain dragged her awake.

'Pain' didn't begin to describe it. The leg and shoulder were a given, but even breathing hurt, her throat scratchy and her right side flaring white-hot when she shifted. Her mouth was dry and sour with the metallic tang of blood, and when she opened her eyes even the dim light was too much. It stabbed straight into her brain like knives of ice.

At first she had no idea where she even was, let alone how she'd got here. Memory came to her slowly, in small, foggy increments -- her fight with Von Ratched, being dragged off away from the cold -- this was his room. This was his room, and she was fairly sure he'd done something terrible to her, though at least no memory of _that_ surfaced.

A cautious attempt to sit up sent pain exploding all through her. Lorna ground her teeth to avoid crying out, and even her jaw hurt -- one of her molars had been knocked loose, and she actually felt it crack. Shit.

She might not remember what Von Ratched had done to her, but the evidence was plain enough. Her T-shirt was torn in half, but her swimming vision found her sweatpants on the floor. Reaching for them was too much effort, but she managed to summon enough telekinesis to pull them to her. Getting them _on_ was a whole other level of difficulty, but she had to. She just…had to.

_Get up,_ she ordered herself, but oh God she was tired, tired and hurting and cocooned by a mental numbness she feared to disturb. Breaking it, facing reality head-on, would drive her mad. _Get up._

Through some Herculean force of will she managed to rise, though her bad leg almost gave out on her. She wrapped the bedspread around herself before hobbling to the bathroom -- she had a morbid need to see the damage. When she clicked on the light switch, the room was filled with an obscenely rosy glow that made her squint, almost blinding her.

With difficulty Lorna approached the sink, leaning heavily on the counter while she surveyed her reflection. Bruises in the shape of fingers were already darkening her throat, and her nose had been broken, covering half her face in blood -- some of what she tasted was her own. It was dried now, rusty-brown and flaky; she'd been unconscious for some time, she realized dimly. Her lower lip was swollen and split, pain flaring and ebbing with every beat of her heart, but it wasn't from a punch -- holy Christ, the bastard had _bitten_ it.

That was enough to make her turn away, stumbling and crawling for the toilet, where she threw up everything she'd eaten in what seemed like another lifetime. She dry-heaved a long while after that, kneeling on the cold tile while her body trembled and her mind retreated deeper into its protective cocoon. Her psyche was a piece of crystal nestled in cotton wool, and she wanted to leave it there.

_Cry, dammit_ , she told herself. _Cry and get it over with._

But she couldn't. Her eyes dry and burning, all Lorna could do was rest her head against the porcelain basin, shivering as though in deep cold. The only thing she was truly capable of thinking was finding a way to end it. Von Ratched had got rid of all his sharp objects, but there was still the mirror.

With immense difficulty she hauled herself upright again, and stared at her hollow-eyed reflection. She looked more zombie than human, and with a sudden surge of rage she smashed both her fists into the mirror. It shattered into hundreds of glittering shards, and her fingers closed around the biggest piece she could find.

_No._

That single word made her pause. It wasn't her own thought, but it certainly couldn't be Von Ratched's. She eyed the glass and her arm, ignoring it, wondering how long it would take her to bleed to death.

_No. If you quit now, he wins._

"He already won," she muttered, but her abused throat could barely form words.

_He hasn't, and he won't. Not unless you die._

"Fuck off." Lorna rested the sharpest point of the glass on the inside of her wrist. What was it? 'Down the road, not across the street'? It wouldn't be hard to slice open her whole forearm. She might not even need to do the other.

And yet she hesitated. There was nothing she could do to Von Ratched, and running away was impossible -- this was the only out she had, but she hesitated nonetheless. Was she really such a coward?

_Who are you in the dark, Lorna?_

"Who the fuck're _you_ , to ask me that?" she demanded. "How _dare_ you?"

And the world exploded.

Not literally, although at first it seemed like the universe had smashed. Searing, blinding light overwhelmed her vision, a roar like a hurricane rising in her ears until it passed into the ultrasonic. All sense of her surroundings, her _self_ , completely ceased, leaving her a being of pure, beaten consciousness. She could feel nothing, could neither see nor hear, but that was a mercy. It meant she wasn't in pain, and right now that was all that mattered. 

When some semblance of coherence returned to her, she found she was no longer in the Institute. She was lying on soft, sun-warmed grass, sweet blades tickling her nose. She rolled onto her back, and opened her eyes to find herself looking at a blue morning sky dotted with puffy clouds. A very faint breeze stirred her hair, which was no longer a snarled mess -- it lay draped over her shoulder in a long braid. The comforter and sweatpants were gone, too, replaced by jeans and a T-shirt. And she didn't hurt here -- she'd been in pain so long she'd forgotten what it was like to be free of it.

Her mind was still numb, though, still shielding itself from proper thought. Even now Lorna knew that acknowledging it would drive her insane. Warm though it was, she was still shivering, and she curled into a fetal ball, arms crossed over her chest, hating herself for her weakness.

"Lorna."

She looked up to find the Lady standing not far from her, those dark sad eyes both gentle and grieving. The power she emanated was somehow comforting, giving strength where Lorna had none.

"Hardship," she whispered, as the Lady approached. "You call _that_ hardship? Why didn't you _tell_ me?" Raw anguish filled her voice, but even now she couldn't cry.

The Lady knelt beside her, running a warm, rough hand over her hair. "It would not have helped," she said gently. "You could not have done anything differently, and you would have lived your every moment in dread."

Lorna shuddered, her entire body racked with dry, heaving sobs. "Do I ever kill him, Lady? Will I ever get revenge?" She was filled with such a depth of shame that only vengeance could ease it. And vengeance equaled murder.

"That is up to you," the Lady said, still stroking her hair. "You will be given a chance, in time. What you choose will determine what you are to become."

"I can't let him get away with this," Lorna said, covering her face with her hands. Rage was joining her grief and shame, a force of wrath that was almost comforting. "He's got to pay for this. Maybe death's too good for him," she added savagely. "Maybe I should cripple him, tear his eyes out and make him _eat_ them."

It was that surge of hatred that finally made her cry. Her tears were wrenched from the depths of her soul, hot and bitter, salty where they touched her lips. And they _hurt_ \-- she hadn't cried in so very long, and even now her instinct was to suppress it. She sobbed until there was nothing left in her, but she still shivered, and wondered if she would ever stop.

The Lady held her the entire time, and made no attempt to shush her. Just now, tears were the only catharsis she had.

"I'm so damn _weak_ , Lady," she said at last, through heaving hiccups. "Goddammit, he _beat_ me. I've never -- shite, I've never lost before. Not like that."

The Lady brushed her damp hair back from her forehead. "You are not weak, child," she said gently. "You have survived so much, and you will survive this. I have taken the greater part of your memories of what happened, and I will never return them to you. They would do more good elsewhere." She kissed the crown of Lorna's head, and her touch was inexpressibly comforting. "Losing a battle does not make you weak, nor does it make you a victim. You have it in you to be stronger than Von Ratched, if you are willing to learn to use your power."

Lorna wasn't sure she believed that. The bastard was so powerful it was monstrous, almost inhuman. Surely _she_ could never match that -- and she wasn't sure she wanted to. "Would it make me like him?" she asked, looking up at the Lady through tear-blurred eyes. "I'm not -- I'm not a very good person, Lady. I don't think I want to know what I'd do, if I had that much power."

"You are more than you think you are, child. You have darkness in you, but you also have so very much light. What you choose when you meet Von Ratched again will decide your course." She rocked Lorna slightly, as she would a real child. "Do not let your hatred rule you. He is not worth it, and there is no torture you might inflict on him that is worse than what he already inflicts on himself. You have a long road ahead of you yet, but live, Lorna. Live, and learn, and grow."

"Sure God, Lady, don't send me back there. I couldn't handle it."

"I will not," the Lady said, stroking Lorna's forehead with her warm, rough hands. "I mean it when I say you have a long journey ahead of you. You must learn about yourself, before you face others. I will give you what you need to survive, and I will give you guides, but for a time the wilderness must be your home."

She rose, and set Lorna on her feet. "I will not abandon you," she said. "I will walk your path with you, though you will not see me. Just remember that you are not alone."

She kissed Lorna's forehead again, and then she and the Garden were gone.

Lorna blinked, for a moment totally disoriented. She stood now in a forest, beneath a fir tree so huge it might have stood for five hundred years. Cold air hit her full in the face, but the rest of her was warm enough. She wasn't dressed in jeans and a T-shirt anymore -- now she wore snow pants and several layers of shirts, as well as a black wool coat that came down to her ankles. Her feet were encased in heavy boots, and on her hands were soft wool gloves. Something was on her head, and when she pulled it off she found it was a white hat of knitted wool.

A search of the coat's pockets produced a bowie knife and a Zippo lighter. Close inspection told her it was the one Liam had given her for their one-year anniversary. The Lady was right -- she did go forward prepared.

It was dawn here, the sky pearl-grey, what little she could see of the horizon faintly pink. It gave her an indication of which way was south, so she turned and started on her way.

It only took two steps for her to realize her injuries had followed her here -- to some extent, at least. She could put weight on her leg, but it hurt like a mad bastard, and she clenched her teeth against a groan. _Why_ did the Lady have to leave her like that? How was she to make it anywhere if she had to limp the whole way? Her shoulder was only vaguely sore, but that would change soon enough. _Damn_ it.

The pain froze her, and made her shudder. The comfort she'd found in the Garden was already fading, and she found herself tempted to scratch her own skin off. Clean though she was, she suddenly felt filthy, and had to fight an overwhelming need to be sick. It was so horrible she leaned against the tree, hands pressed to her face while her skin crawled.

_You are free._

Quiet though it was, the thought broke through her horror. Lorna lowered her hands, looking at the forest around her. Snow lay feathered on the boughs high above, but there was little on the ground. It was like standing in some massive cathedral, and though it made her feel smaller than ever, that wasn't a bad thing.

_You are free. There is nothing to help or hinder you but yourself. Go forward, Lorna, and don't look back._

That was much easier said than done. But, painful and slow though it was, moving _did_ help. Every uncertain, wobbling step she took led her further from the Institute, away from the monster who had tried and failed to break her. She couldn't change what had been done to her, but she was being given the chance to learn to live with it, before she had to face people again. Once again she was on her own, but perhaps now that could be a good thing.

\----

The Institute was still and silent as a tomb. It was a heavy, oppressive silence that threatened to suffocate Von Ratched, pressing on his chest like a lead weight.

He sat in the main lab of F wing, his head in his hands. The room was almost entirely dark, the only illumination the weak fluorescent bulbs over one counter. He skulked in the shadows, and wondered if he would go mad.

At this point, madness was an enticing proposition. He sat up straight and looked at his hands, for the first time knowing the meaning of despair. Traces of Lorna's blood remained on his fingers, now dry and flaky. It lingered in his mouth, too, sour and bitter. He'd finally gone much, much too far, and he knew it.

Von Ratched had killed and tortured dozens of people over the course of his long life, but he'd never, _ever_ come even close to doing what he'd just done to Lorna. He was a dispassionate monster -- he'd taken vicious satisfaction in vengeance before, but it had never been anything like _this_. He'd done his level best to break her, to force her to realize she was his, but he'd enjoyed it. Far, far too much. For once he'd fit the proper definition of a sadist, something he had always believed was beneath him.

He should go back. She'd been alive when he left her, but without medical attention, she might not remain so for long. He'd broken at least two of her ribs, and hit her so hard he might well have cracked her skull. She needed aid, probably a great deal of it, but not for anything could he return to his apartment. Even if Lorna was comatose, he might never be able to face her again.

Yes, madness was tempting, but his mind was too rigid to allow him that luxury, and he was cursed with an eidetic memory. He might live a hundred more years, but he would never forget a moment of it. It was burned into his mind for the rest of his life.

And it was burned into Lorna's, too. He couldn't take it away, couldn't go in and tear it out by the roots. He'd been so thorough in his torment he had to have broken her, and there was no way to undo it. _She_ might lose her mind if she'd survived, but that might be a blessing.

But he couldn't go to her, no matter how much his guilt wanted to beg for forgiveness she would never grant him. Forgiveness he certainly didn’t deserve.

Maybe he should kill her. Maybe he should kill both of them -- Lorna because she didn't deserve the horror his actions would force her to live with, and himself because he didn't deserve to live. Such a bitter irony, that a man who had spent almost a century seeking immortality would drive himself to suicide.

The thought steeled him, forced him to move. When Von Ratched set his mind to a thing, that thing happened, and he trod his way back to his apartment in grim silence. He could stop her heart quite easily, give her a painless death. He, on the other hand, deserved much worse.

And he would give her what dignity he could, wash her and dress her and return her to her apartment, so that the Institute's would-be rescuers would not find her as he'd left her. He could do that much.

When he reached the door, he hesitated. His resolutions were all well and good, but first he had to face her -- had to face his gruesome handiwork.

And he didn't know if he could do it.

He stood there a long while, the doorknob cold under his hand. It took every ounce of will he had to turn it, to enter his home that smelled of blood and fear. He forced himself to go to his bedroom, to turn on the light and survey the worst mistake of his life.

Lorna wasn't there.

Dread seized Von Ratched, crowding out his guilt. The bloody sheets remained on the bed, but the comforter was gone. Somehow she'd moved, but in the state he'd left her, she couldn't have gone far. Small, bare, bloody footprints led to the bathroom, but she wasn't there, either. His comforter was, lying crumpled amid the shattered remnants of the mirror, but no Lorna.

He raced through his apartment, for the first time in his life completely frantic, but there was no sign of her. The front door had still been locked from the inside -- there was no way she had left through it. The windows were all closed; she hadn't jumped, either. She'd just…vanished.

He returned to the bathroom, careful not to step on the broken glass. Lying atop the comforter was a single sprig of forget-me-not, and for once wild moment he wondered if she'd turned herself into a flower, like women in the fairytales of his homeland. He knelt to pick it up, but as soon as his fingers touched it, his mind was hit with an assault so intense it knocked him over.

_It was memory -- Lorna's memory, the torturous, unbearable mix of pain and desire he'd forced on her. It possessed him with such crystal clarity that it threatened to really drive him insane. He felt the snap of her ribs, tasted the blood that filled her mouth when he bit her lip, and oh God, this was horrible beyond anything even his twisted imagination could come up with. Fear, rage, hatred, pain, but also shame, a deep and terrible self-loathing. And it went on for what seemed like an eternity, until his mind threatened to break apart --_

He managed to drop the flower, and found he'd collapsed. Shards of mirror had lodged in his chest, drawing faint streaks and runnels of blood, but he couldn't move. Not yet. Was _that_ what he had made her feel -- what she was now forced to live with, wherever she'd fled?

No. No, he couldn't let it go on, couldn't doom her to the madness he had to have driven her to. She couldn't have gone far -- he would find her, and he would end this. For both of them.


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shit has hit the fan. Now it's time for the splatter.

Ratiri barely had time to put on something more sensible before Geezer dragged him off. Gerald and Katje were to stay behind, but Geezer refused to be left out of military action, and Ratiri refused to be controlled, period.

The ever-resourceful Julifer had scared up fatigues and boots for him, along with gloves and a heavy jacket. At least he wouldn't freeze to death.

He almost ran headlong into Miranda when they met up at a Door. She was being followed by a man and a woman locked in a fierce argument, and regarded them both with badly-frayed patience.

"If she wants to go up with the Washington convoy, let her," she snapped. "As long as she knows what she's getting into, it can't hurt anything. Now both of you, bugger off."

She shook her head as they retreated, and led Ratiri and Geezer through the Door, into a long tunnel of chilly concrete.

"What was that about?" Geezer asked.

"We've got some auxiliary forces coming up from Washington State," she said, pulling an aviator hat onto her head. "One of them's got a sister who's a reporter, and she wants to go with. Getting footage up there might be useful."

Ratiri had to agree -- provided they all got there in one piece. His determination to get to the Institute was somewhat hampered by his fear of flying. He didn't have the luxury of unconsciousness this time.

The tunnel opened out into a vast hangar that couldn't have been more different form the one at the Institute. It was organized with military precision, but the walls were as plastered with signs and pictures as those within the DMA itself. Multicolored Christmas lights were strung haphazardly along some of the shelving, and what looked like a Tibetan mandala had been painted on the floor. What an odd, _odd_ place this was.

The aircraft were standard enough, a variety of planes, and helicopters parked on snow-dusted tarmac. Ratiri rode with Geezer and a pair of DMA soldiers, both of whom bore what looked like grenade launchers. "I'm Tamara, and this is Al," one of them said. She was a tall black woman, built like the proverbial brick house. "I'm your weather-manipulator. Don't worry about any storms bringing us down."

Well, that was a relief. "Good to meet you. I’m Ratiri."

"We know who all y'all are," Al said, handing him a headset that looked like a pair of orange rubber earmuffs. "Put these on or you'll go deaf."

Ratiri did, and they shut out the greater part of the noise as Geezer fired up the engine. His stomach gave a horrible, wrenching lurch when they took off, but Geezer knew what he was doing, and they steadied almost immediately.

It was a good fifteen minutes before Ratiri dared look out the window, and when he did he found them flying over a vast expanse of forest. The trees were conifers of some kind, frosted with a fine layer of snow, spread out for miles without a sign of civilization. It had been late morning in London, but it was very early here, the sun barely peeking over the horizon. It gilded the trees, making the snow glow faintly gold, and he wished he could appreciate it. As it was, he was much too tense, both from flying and from worry over what might await them at the Institute. 

At least they were hardly alone. They were surrounded by more helicopters than he could count, and he hoped like hell that would be enough. If Von Ratched was still at the Institute, it might not be.

But then, this group was hardly ordinary military. It was made up of cursed -- altered -- whatever the hell you wanted to call them, most born with their abilities. Unlike the inmates, they knew what they were doing, knew how to properly utilize their powers. However strong he was, Von Ratched was only one man, and Ratiri had to tell himself they could beat him. It was the only way to avoid having a heart attack from worry.

He shifted a little, wishing he'd had time to take more painkillers. His leg was killing him, and it was only going to get worse, but he couldn't afford to let it slow him down. At least it would hold his weight, if nothing else.

Tamara tapped his arm, and pointed at his leg, a question in her eyes. Ratiri grimaced and nodded, and she stripped off her gloves to dig through the first aid kit. When she filled a syringe with morphine, he vehemently shook his head -- he couldn't be out of it when they reached the Institute.

She rolled her eyes, and tapped her wrist where a watch would rest. He got the message: they had a long way to go. With a sigh he rolled up his sleeve and let her inject him, and found the drug did more than relieve his pain. Almost against his will he felt himself relax, his tension easing. He gave her a thumbs-up, and she smiled.

He shut his eyes, letting his head rest against the cold metal of the cockpit wall. He'd been pumped full of so many painkillers for so long that he was probably horribly addicted, but that could be dealt with later, when they were safe. No point in borrowing trouble right now.

\----

Lorna would never have thought a person could get used to the kind of pain she was in, but after four hours of walking, she'd learned to ignore it. What she couldn't ignore was the hunger that clawed at her stomach, but she didn't know what to do about that.

She knew a great deal about edible plants, but she couldn't even recognize half of what grew here. The ground got so little sunlight that the undergrowth was pretty sparse anyway, and she wondered if the Lady had meant her to starve out here. Even if she hadn't been in such rotten shape physically, she didn't know the first thing about hunting.

She was also thirsty. She'd found a creek, but Lorna knew better than to drink untreated spring water -- the last thing she needed was a case of giardia. She could make a fire, but she had nothing to boil water in, and her supplies didn't include iodine pills. Shit. So far she'd tried eating snow, but that was hardly a thirst-quencher. All it really did was make her teeth ache.

Eventually she had to stop and build a fire, digging up dry kindling from the base of a few huge trees. For a while she sat and basked in the warmth, watching the cheery dance of red and yellow when she wasn't looking longingly at the creek.

She scooped up some snow and held her hands near the fire, letting it melt. It took half an hour of this for her to drink until she was sated, but it was much better than nothing -- and certainly better than a day of giardia-induced diarrhea. That still left the problem of her hunger, though, and she found herself wondering if cedar bark was edible.  
"Dammit, Lady," she muttered. "I'm not sure you thought this out very well."

She was still grumbling to herself when a twig snapped behind her, and she froze. There was no way any person had followed her out here, and she sure as hell didn't want to tangle with a bear, telekinesis or no telekinesis. Maybe she could use the fire to scare it off.

She turned, very, very slowly, her heart in her throat and her blood pounding in her ears. After everything that had happened to her, she would have thought her supply of adrenaline had run dry, but for once she was poised for flight rather than fight. A human adversary she could deal with, but wildlife was another story entirely.

A wolf stood at the edge of the tress, a grey, shaggy beast that from her perspective looked the size of a small horse. Its paws were almost as big as her hands, for fuck's sake, and she didn't want to think about what its teeth would be like.

There was no hostility in its arctic blue eyes, though -- in fact, there was a lot more intelligence than Lorna would have expected of an animal. They stared at one another a while, until she began to feel like a fool.

"I'll not hurt you," she said. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't try to eat me, either. I've not got any food myself, so I can't share."

Still the wolf stared at her, and she wondered if it was possible to read an animal's mind. At least she could try to communicate that she wasn't a threat.

The creature cocked its head to one side, giving her a puzzled look that was almost human. A second wolf crept up beside it, and this one had a bloody, furry mess that had once been an animal in its jaws..

To Lorna's disbelief, the gory mess was tossed onto the ground in front of her. She looked from it to the wolves, and very cautiously leaned forward to grab the thing. She couldn't tell what it had been in life, but it was big enough to make a meal, if she could figure out how to skin it.

"Ah…thanks," she said, feeling more foolish still. It almost seemed they understood her, though, sharing a glance that was again almost human. They trotted away into the trees again, leaving Lorna to try to deal with her dinner.

What followed was the most disgusting thing she'd ever done. Not only had she never skinned and dressed an animal before, she'd never seen it done, and had only a vague idea how to go about it. At least her knife was wickedly sharp, saving her the trouble of having to saw through anything, but it wound up being a good thing her stomach was empty, because she retched a few times during the proceedings.

She cut the meat into thin slices, wanting to make sure it would cook all the way through. The fire had enough coals now to be more than hot enough, though she burned her fingers several times and at one point lit her roasting stick on fire.

Still, it worked in the end, and then she had to force herself to eat slowly so she wouldn’t get sick. The sun was slanting toward evening by the time she was through, so unless it got windy, she'd stay put for the night. Now that she was warm and well-fed, the pain didn't bother her as much.

She looked around at the trees. There was a kind of majesty in this forest she'd never felt anywhere else. It had stood for hundreds of years, and had maybe never been seen by a human before. It was as far a cry from the sterile Institute as she could get, and Lorna thought she understood why the Lady had brought her here. She wasn't ready to face other people yet, their questions and anger and pity -- and maybe, if she was out here enough for her more recent wounds to heal, nobody need ever know what Von Ratched had done to her.

No matter what the Lady said, the shame still burned. Not only had Lorna been beaten, she'd been violated in the worst possible way. Nobody could ever find out about it, because she refused to be seen as a victim, and that was exactly what she would get.

After the crash that killed Liam and made her miscarry, there had been a rape victim in the hospital at the same time as her. Everyone, even the staff, tiptoed around her, as though they were afraid she might shatter if they breathed wrong. Lorna would be damned if she'd let that happen to her -- no one was going to think she was weak, that she was some fragile flower in need of coddling. She'd deal with this in her own way, with no one to tell her what to think or how to feel. She was a survivor, not a victim, and nobody was ever going to think otherwise. She wouldn't give them a chance.

It was with those thoughts that she fell asleep, warm beside her dying fire, and she was so tired that she didn't dream.

\----

Von Ratched had packed up a helicopter and headed off into the night as soon as he made his decision. Let the DMA have the Institute -- let them find all his papers and expose him to the world for them monster he was. Very soon, it wouldn't matter.

The weather was foul, but he would have taken off into a hurricane if he'd had to. The snow was light, but the wind was howling, fighting the rotor and threatening to send him off-course every few seconds.

He wanted to believe Lorna couldn't have gone far, but since he didn't know how she'd even escaped, he couldn't' rule anything out. All his equipment had still been on the base, and the security cameras showed nothing -- but she was still nowhere in the Institute. _Something_ had helped her, and when he found her, he meant to find out what.

But even with his infrared scanner, a five-mile circuit of the Institute showed nothing. If there was any logic left in this situation, she probably would have headed south, so south he went.

The chopper had a satellite radio, and he kept searching the bands, wondering if someone had found her. There was nothing of that, but there was quite a bit of coded military chatter that was likely about him. Ordinarily his inner narcissist would have been pleased by that, but for once he was too focused to be pleased by anything.

The wind continued to buffet the chopper, and Von Ratched continued to fight it with grim determination. His shoulder ached terribly, and he hadn't bothered to clean the blood from his neck and face. The wound at his neck throbbed dully, but it had mostly stopped bleeding. He knew he must look like a nightmare, but that hardly mattered now.

He flew until dawn, sweeping wide circles as he headed south, but all the infrared picked up were animals. Where _was_ she, his wayward Lorna?

_She could be dead._

Yes, she very easily could be, and if she was she certainly wouldn't show up on infrared, but he couldn't rest until he _knew_. The fact that he would probably never know was not one he was willing to entertain.

\----

The helicopters spotted smoke long before they reached the Institute.

They'd flown all day and well into the night, Miranda wanting to approach the place under whatever cover the darkness might provide. The wind was heavy, but the snow light enough that the massive column of smoke was more than visible enough.

"Shit," Geezer muttered, banking upward.

"What the hell is that?" Miranda demanded, her voice tinny over the staticky connection of the headset.

"Wrigley, probably. Kid must have had a meltdown, which means Von Ratched's probably gone."

"How's that?"

"Von Ratched woulda made sure he stayed drugged. If Wrigley's gone China Syndrome and it hasn't been put out yet, things in there are probably a total clusterfuck. And that wouldn't happen if Von Ratched was still there."

"Good."

_Not necessarily_ , he thought. If Von Ratched had left by air, he could be anywhere. Shit, they might even run into him -- and if he had Lorna with him, they couldn't just shoot him down. _That_ would be a royal problem, but Geezer wouldn't dwell on it right now. For now, they had enough to worry about it.

Even as they approached, something big exploded -- something near the military base, if he was any judge. An impressive fireball bloomed upward, rendered blurry by the snow, and Miranda swore, half admiringly.

"Looks like this might be just a rescue mission after all," he muttered. So far as the Institute's military were concerned, they were arriving at the worst possible time -- damn hard to defend yourself when your base was on fire.

"Should we even bother approaching quietly?" someone asked over the radio.

"We stick with the plan until we know whether or not Von Ratched's really gone," Miranda said. "Geezer, I'm following you. The rest of you, come in around like we planned."

"Copy that." In spite of all the tension, Geezer found some part of him was _enjoying_ this. Some of his few good memories were of piloting, and once upon a time he'd thrived on shit like this. His instincts knew it, even if his conscious mind couldn't remember. The rotor fought him as they swooped downward through the wind and snow, his stomach juking with adrenaline rather than nausea. If Miranda would let him, he could get used to this.

He banked around in a wide circle, avoiding the smoke as he headed for the tarmac. The goddamn replacement hangar was on fire -- Von Ratched _had_ to be gone, or that would never have been allowed to keep burning.

And that meant it probably wasn't Wrigley's doing, either. There was no way the kid could have gotten out here, Von Ratched or no Von Ratched -- so what the hell had caused it?

"Come on down, Miranda," he said. "I don't think these goons'll put up a fight. I'm gonna go see what's going on."

He killed the engine and hopped out before any of his passengers could protest, striding across the tarmac like he owned the place. The heat hit him like a blast from an open oven, along with a smell of--

"Oh, _fuck_." He took off, mission momentarily forgotten, and nabbed a passing mercenary. Goddamned idiots didn't have any ranking system he recognized, but screw it. This one was maybe twenty, little more than a scared kid. "Shut off the gas manes, son, while we've still got a base."

"We _did_ \--" the kid started.

"Bullshit. If I can still smell it this strong, you've got a leak somewhere. _Find it_."

The boy scurried off, and Geezer shook his head. _Mercenaries_. Most of them weren't worth a tin shit, and this group didn't seem to be any exception. He never would have dreamed he'd wind up trying to _save_ the Institute, but if they didn't get the gas shut off, the whole place could blow sky-high.

He strode through the hellish heat, ignoring the stink of smoke and gas, though both were so strong he could taste it. He marched until he found someone who looked a lot more with it than the kid, a man of about his own age with a soot-streaked face and a harried expression.

"Who the hell are you?" the man demanded.

"Reinforcements," Geezer returned. "Why the hell's the gas still on?"

Under any other circumstances, the man probably would have questioned that, but his base was literally burning down around his ears. "Cold cracked one of the manes, we think," he said, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. "Can't find the goddamn leak. Doctor took off and left us to deal with this on our own.

"He _what_?"

"Went out in a helicopter. Said he had to go hunting. Looked like hell, too -- something worked him over good."

One plus one had to equal Lorna. Shit. Geezer had no idea whether that would be good or bad. "How's the main building?"

"It's standing, if that's what you mean, but I'm fucked if I know what's going on inside. At this point, I don't _care._ "

"I'll check. Good luck, soldier."

Geezer strode off again, wondering what the hell had really happened. Yeah, it was cold, but not cold enough to rupture any decently-constructed gas mane. It had to be sabotage, but he couldn't imagine any of the mercenaries would be willing to -- oh. Oh, hell.

He pulled the radio from his belt. "You guys stay away from the base," he said. "Tamara, get our chopper outta there, and Miranda, scoot around the other side. Whole damn place is a booby-trap."

"Where should we land?" Miranda asked.

"Other side of the Institute. I'll meet you there, and everybody needs gas masks if we go in."

"Why?"

"Von Ratched's skipped town, but he set off the gas manes out here, and there's a good chance he could have in there, too. Could kill everyone in their sleep."

" _Shit_. Hurry it up -- we'll start breaking walls down."

"On it." He was running now, sweating with exertion and the heat of the fire. He was too damn old for this, already winded, and by the time he reached the helicopters he was panting like a dog on a hot summer day.

They were landing in the tundra, one by one, most far enough away that they wouldn't get caught even if the whole Institute went up. Scores of people in gas masks had already broken down a side door, pouring into the building like driver ants.

He found his own helicopter, and grabbed a mask. "Von Ratched's gone and so is Lorna," he told Ratiri, "but not together. We get everybody outta here, and you and I can go hunting for them both."

"Not on the amount of fuel you've got," Al said, his voice muffled by his mask. "We'll have to refuel to get back to base, but you don't have enough to go haring off into the wilderness no matter what."

Geezer would argue the point later. For now he grabbed a Bowie knife and stormed inside. If the gas really had been set off, they couldn't risk gunfire -- but they were cursed and the staff weren't. Guns probably wouldn't be necessary.

The corridors were dim and still and eerie -- and _cold_. Some who had gone ahead had broken out the windows, attempting to clear any gas there might be. Snow whirled in, melting where it hit the floor, but it would turn to ice soon enough.

It didn't take them long to run into some panicked staff, but they were overpowered and dealt with easily enough. Breaking down the doors to the inmates' cells was a lot more difficult a proposition, and took more time than he liked. There were so many, and every second counted.

The inmates themselves emerged terrified and shivering, and were bundled in blankets before being dragged to the choppers. Some of them were so drugged they had to _literally_ be dragged, and Geezer knew the hospital at the DMA would have its hands full.

He headed for F wing, letting the others take care of things in the main area. Even if Von Ratched never came back, all his 'research' had to be destroyed. It couldn't be allowed to fall into anyone's hands.

He had to break down the door with an axe, which left him more out of breath than ever, his muscles burning and twitching. He didn't dare light anything on fire, but smashing all the machinery was surprisingly cathartic. Plastic shattered, mental twisted and tore apart, and a fresh spurt of adrenaline took hold of him. The glass cases of chemicals and blood samples came apart with a satisfying crash, their contents mingling in noxious pools on the floor.

Von Ratched's records were somewhere else -- probably in his office or apartment. It didn't take long to find the office, and that door was already ajar.

The place was trashed. Bits of glass from the window and television littered the floor, already getting buried by snow. The desk was overturned, and there was a hell of a lot of blood on the floor near one wall. Lorna and Von Ratched had gotten in one mother of a knock-down, drag-out fight, and Geezer wondered how they were both still _alive._

Yet Lorna had somehow managed to escape. Whenever they found her, he really wanted to hear that story.

Books were scattered everywhere, too, and a glance at one told him they were indeed Von Ratched's writing. Geezer picked up a few, for evidence, and tore the rest apart, hacking with his axe until only scraps of paper remained. Nobody was getting _anything_ out of this.

He was sweating even worse by the time he was through, and he marched out with the grim satisfaction of a job we done. Smoke from the base fire was drifting in through the shattered windows, along with a lot of snow. This place would be a ruin by the time they were done, and good riddance.

Nurse Grieggs came barreling by him when he reached the main wing, and he grabbed her by the collar and punched her lights out. Normally he didn't hold with hitting women, but Grieggs was a snake, and she'd answer for her crimes here. All these bastards would.

He hauled her over his shoulder like a sandbag, and that really made him ache. He dumped her on Miranda as soon as he could, and looked around.

The inmates had mostly been bundled into the choppers by now, the staff bound with cable ties. None of them had been issued blankets, and they knelt shivering in the snow. No doubt they thought they were all about to be executed, but nobody was going to let them off that easy. They would face the judgment of the world, though God knew just who had the legal right to prosecute them, and in what court. Miranda could deal with that.

With a sigh of relief he stripped off his mask, drawing a deep breath of air so cold it made his lungs burn. He looked down the line of prisoners and spotted the reporter, a pretty brunette in her late twenties, dressed in designer snow gear. She had a patented Newscaster Serious Expression, and he couldn't tell if her pallor was a trick of the light or simple shock.

"The hell do we do now?" he asked Miranda. "Torch the place?"

"We do that and it might blow up," she pointed out, and then grinned. "I say we nuke the site from orbit. It's the only way to be sure."

Poor though Geezer's memory was, he actually got the reference. "Right," he said, smiling tiredly.

They never got the chance. It must have been a long time since anyone sedated Wrigley, for he chose that moment to set the tundra alight in a big, big way. Flames bloomed up high and hot in the darkness, and more than one person screamed.

Miranda swore. "Julifer, get your ass over here! I need your help."

They both bolted for the kid, and in the distance Geezer saw Miranda catch Wrigley in a flying tackle. Julifer grabbed his hair, and at least the irregular explosions stopped, though the fire burned on. Wrigley himself struggled for a bit, but some whispered words from Julifer calmed him, even as she dragged him away.

The imprisoned staff stumbled quite a bit as they were hurried further from the Institute. Geezer had to suppress the urge to trip a few.

Unfortunately, the reporter chose that moment to jog up and hold out her microphone, her camera man trailing her like a puppy. "Do you have a few moments for a statement?"

He paused, uncertain. Being a man of relatively few words, he had no idea what to say. "I don't know what statement I could give you," he said. "Did you go in there?"

"We did," she said, and shivered a little. "I was wondering what it felt like for you, being back here again."

It was a surprisingly difficult question to answer. "Glad," he said at last, "in a way. C'mon, keep walking with me." He led them onward, keeping an eye out for further trouble. "We've gotten everybody out, even if Von Ratched's still loose. This place is finished -- we can get 'em help. And I made damn sure nobody'll ever get their hands on Von Ratched's so-called 'research'."

"What about the woman you were speaking to on the phone yesterday? Lorna?"

He sighed. "She's not here. She escaped, although if she'd been shot earlier I’m damned if I know how. Von Ratched took off looking for her."

"How far could she have gone, in so short a time?"

"Depends on what she stole before she ran. We'd better find her before he does, though. From the look of his office, they damn near killed each other." He paused to shove some of the staff into a helicopter.

"What will happen to them?" the reporter asked.

Geezer sighed again. "Dunno. We want to try 'em in court, but I've got no idea what court. Chuck 'em in prison until then, I guess."

A second explosion made him jump -- this one much bigger. That one wasn't Wrigley's fault, though; it came from the base on the other side of the Institute, and he hoped like hell none of their own people had been caught in it. He didn't know what Miranda's people were doing about the mercenaries, but so far there hadn't been any gunfire he could hear. 

They found Ratiri in the next helicopter, busily picking out a former inmate's aura. His expression was bleak -- someone had told him Lorna was gone.

"We'll find her, son," Geezer said. "You know we will." 

"I know," Ratiri said quietly, "but what will happen to her in the meantime? She's lost in the wilderness with a gunshot wound, and if she fought with Von Ratched before she escaped, she has to be even more hurt."

"Woman's tough as shoe-leather, Ratiri," Geezer said. "She'd punch hypothermia in the face if she could."

Ratiri tried to smile, but it didn't quite work. "Tell me we'll get her back in one piece, Geezer," he said. "Tell me she won't be broken beyond repair."

"You're selling her short, if you think anything could break her. Once we get everyone else out safe, you and I'll go looking for her."

"You love her, don't you?" the reporter asked. Geezer had forgotten she was even there.

"More than anything," Ratiri sighed. "Knowing she's somewhere out there in this cold -- it's almost more than I can handle."

"Handle it," Geezer ordered. "And when we find her, you can spoil her 'til she gets sick of it."

That time Ratiri did manage a smile, just barely. "Let's go home."

Home. It was an unfamiliar concept to Geezer, who had wandered most of his remembered life. Could he turn his apartment into a home? Could he settle down in one place? Maybe it was time to. His fellow escapees were the closest thing to family he had ever known. Though he was a loner by nature, it was a habit he ought to break. They'd all gone through too much together to separate now. "Good idea," he said.


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which things begin to look up for everyone who isn't named Von Ratched.

Lorna woke the next morning stiff, cold, and very, very sore. Even her _teeth_ ached, and her chilled hands were so stiff she had a hard time building up the fire again.

It was midmorning now, the sun washing everything with gold -- good grief, she must have slept close to twelve hours. One of the wolves had left her another furry offering in the night, and once her hands were warm enough she set about gutting it.

She was thirstier than ever, so much so that she decided to brave the stream. The water numbed her hands, but she scrubbed them well before she drank, and it was so cold it made her teeth ache even more. Small sips, to see how her body would handle it -- she could melt more snow later, if she had to.

Cooking breakfast was another messy, drawn-out affair, but food was food. And no matter how much she hurt, her head was clear for the first time since she'd been shot, with no morphine to dull it.

Lorna looked up at the sky, now very blue. Her mind shied away from the shooting, because to think of that would be to think of all that had followed. Even in this vast wilderness, the memory made her feel intensely claustrophobic, and she forced herself to breathe deeply while she stared upward, badgering mind and body into remembering she was free. Hurt, yes, but free, well-fed, her mind no longer hazed by drugs she would never voluntarily touch again. At least it felt better than her last detox had. 

"Shift your arse, Lorna," she told herself. "You can't sit here all day."

Shift she did, swearing the whole way, and set about finding a walking-stick. She had to have something to lean on, or this bloody leg wouldn't support her long. The one she found was heavier than she liked, but she'd get used to it. Once she'd kicked some dirt over the fire to smother it, she turned south.

Part of her was afraid to run into the wolves, for all they'd helped her. They'd brought her food, but they could eat her just as easily -- she doubted her telekinesis could ward off a whole pack. Not in the condition she was in.

But she saw nothing of them as she limped onward, leaning heavily on her stick. Movement eased her stiffness, even if the pain only grew worse the longer she went. Chilly though the air was, the rising sun warmed her face, and Lorna smiled in spite of her hurt. _Free_ , her mind sang. _I'm free_. And God help anyone who ever tried to lock her up again.

She thought of Ratiri as she hobbled, of where they would live, what they would do. Focusing on the future meant she didn't have to think of the past -- it would probably be a long, long time before she would be able to remember the Institute without having a panic attack. Her injuries made it impossible to ignore it entirely, but she was giving it the old college try.

This forest was gorgeous, and she thought she wanted to live in the woods. She liked the scent of the trees, the clean sweetness of the earth. Ireland was a place she could never live again -- she wasn't the same Lorna who had fled eight months ago. She thought it was eight months, anyway; she still wasn't sure how long she'd been in the Institute. It certainly felt like years.

Besides, Von Ratched would expect her to go back to Ireland. The Lady had as good as said she'd be facing him again, but it might be a long while before she was ready for that. No, she wanted to settle somewhere he wouldn't look, somewhere in the mountains. She and Ratiri could have a cabin, near enough some town where he could open a clinic, and she could either go back to bartending or into landscaping. She liked the idea of a job out in the open.

The thought distracted her from the pain, from worrying over the fact that she really was completely lost. Slow though her pace had to be, each step took her to the future, to a place where the pain would fade.

She pulled her braid over her shoulder, looking at it. The grey had advanced so much, but she no longer wanted to cut it off. Her hair was hers again, and as silly a thought though that was, it made her feel better. She was her own person again, with no one to pursue or covet her. And God, did that feel good. All she could do was hope it lasted.

\----

Von Ratched was less pleased.

He'd stocked several bolt-holes away from the Institute, just in case he did need to leave in a hurry, and he stopped at one come the second dawn since his leaving. The DMA would be on their way north, and he didn't have the patience to deal with them. It was unlikely they would cross his path, but he needed to refuel and re-supply, and he ought to at least try to sleep.

This hole was literally that -- a tunnel bored into the side of a low hill. It contained water, winter clothing, some military meals-ready-to-eat -- the MRE's, he thought, had been designed for maximum inedibility -- as well as fuel, a gas stove, and some cookware. The water was frozen, and he had to melt some on the stove to make some coffee. The warmth it provided was meager, but it was better than nothing.

Somehow, Lorna had gone a lot farther than he would have thought possible. _How_ didn't matter, though he would ask, when he found her. Something must have helped her, and he could only hope she hadn't made it to Anchorage. She'd be so much more difficult to hunt there.

This was likely a fool's errand, as Von Ratched knew very well. His odds of finding Lorna were next to nothing, but he had to try, for both their sakes'. She couldn't be forced to live with this.

He leaned back against a box of canned food, cradling the tin mug of coffee in his chilled hands. If he was honest with himself, his motives weren't entirely altruistic. He didn't want anyone knowing what he'd done, because he was embarrassed by such an egregious laps of control. Being known as a murderer was something he didn't mind, but he so disdained rapists that he _really_ didn't want to be remembered as one. It was selfish, but Von Ratched had never denied he was a selfish man. Killing Lorna would be a mercy to her, but it would also get rid of the evidence. At least he had the grace to be slightly ashamed of the thought. 

\----

In spite of his leg, Ratiri insisted on helping in the DMA hospital. Many of the former inmates were still terrified, but they knew him. A little Vicoden let him hobble around to see them all, reassuring them they were safe here.

The condition of some of them pissed him off, and set that alien animal stirring in his mind. Von Ratched must have decided a few of them were expendable, for Ratiri found eleven with improperly-set broken bones, fresh surgical wounds, and one with an untreated skull fracture. The bastard must have taken his anger at Lorna out on the inmates, physically and mentally. Given the state of some auras, Ratiri thought a few might never fully recover.

Wrigley was in particularly nasty shape. Von Ratched hadn't physically harmed him, but his aura was so grey there was hardly any color left. He was curled in a fetal ball on the hospital bed, shivering, eyes vacant. Jesus, he was just a kid, and he might be permanently broken.

Julifer sat with him, a reassuring hand on his back. She looked exhausted, but she refused to budge. A nurse had told Ratiri she was a nullifier -- her curse let her suppress other people's, and she sat with Wrigley so he didn't have to be drugged again.

"Just relax, Wrigley," Ratiri said, pulling up a chair. "I'm going to clean out your aura. It'll make you feel better." Honestly, there was so much grey that he wasn't sure he _could_ properly clean it, but even a little had to help.

The kid flinched, and Julifer rubbed soothing circles on his back. "Chill," she said. "You're safe. Nothing's gonna hurt you."

The grey was so entrenched that Ratiri's hands started burning almost immediately, even with the Vicoden. What had Von Ratched _done_ to him? Even the woman with the skull fracture wasn't this traumatized. 

_That's what happens when you have an interesting curse_. Ratiri scowled, wondering if he could get more Vicoden when he was finished -- his hands felt like they ought to be blistering. Wrigley, Lorna, himself, Geezer…they'd gotten an unfair amount of Von Ratched's attention, and they probably weren't the only ones. Mary the hover-woman refused to speak -- her head had been shaved, and there was a surgical scar along her left temple. She'd need an MRI, as soon as she trusted them to give one to her.

"Mengele," he muttered. "Modern-day Mengele. It's hard to believe that son of a bitch is human."

"No," Julifer said, "it's easy. You need a human's brain and free will to be that kind of monster."

That was an appallingly bleak outlook, one Julifer looked too young to have. If she was any older than twenty, Ratiri would be very surprised. "That's harsh," he said.

"I've heard stories about that bastard since I was little," she said. "My aunt was one of the people the DMA sent after him. I don't know what he did to her, but when I started working for Miranda, my parents made me promise I'd never go hunting him myself. They're gonna chew me out for hours when they find out about this." She smiled, but it contained no humor.

"Can he get in here?"

Ratiri looked at Wrigley, surprised to hear the boy speak. That had to be a good sign.

"No," Julifer said gently. "There's no way he could even find this place, let alone get in. You're safe here."

Wrigley didn't say anything more, and Ratiri was even more surprised at how easily he fell asleep.

"Go get some coffee, Julifer. I'll be here a while yet."

She yawned, and stretched when she stood. "Miranda'll want to talk to us later," she said. "I'll let you know when. Don't overdo it in here."

How could he not? He was a doctor. This wasn't exactly a medical procedure, but he would stick it out until it was done, because that was what real, _good_ doctors did.

And however much it hurt, it was rewarding. Wrigley's aura was normally a mix of green and gold, and the colors grew stronger as Ratiri worked. They were still pale, but in time they would return to full strength. Ratiri would clean out the aura of every inmate every day if he had to -- it was the only true comfort he could give, the one thing he could do that anyone else couldn't. And however tiring it was, it made him feel useful.

He let his mind wander while he worked, trying to distance himself from the stinging burn of his fingers. Just how many different curses _were_ there? Did everyone only have one, or did any of the natural-borns have several? He thought that Lorna's telekinesis and telepathy were two facets of the same curse, like his ability to manipulate auras as well as see them. Transfiguration, precognition, pyrokinesis, weather-manipulation, nullification, electropathy -- what else was floating around out there?

Miranda probably knew, and he'd ask her, once everything had settled down. He knew next to nothing of these curses, and once he had Lorna back, once he knew she was safe, there were so many questions to ask. They'd both need time to heal physically before they could think of moving somewhere permanently, and there was so much he wanted to know.

By the time he'd finished with Wrigley's aura, Ratiri was so exhausted he was dizzy. He didn't even have enough energy to get back to his apartment -- he staggered down the hallway until he found and empty room, and collapsed on the bed.

\----

_For once, Ratiri didn't have any nightmares, but what dreams he did have were not entirely comforting._

_He found himself in the Garden, a section he'd never seen before. It was a mountain, forested with fir trees that smelled bittersweet in the afternoon sun. The air was hot and still, the quiet broken only by the distant call of birds, and he basked in it -- after so long in the chill of the Institute, he'd wondered if he'd ever feel truly warm again._

_His leg was just fine here, whole and free of pain, and he tested his weight on it. Even here, Ratiri couldn't shut off his doctor's instincts, nor his scientific curiosity -- he wondered how this could seem so very real when his physical body was elsewhere._

_"Ratiri."_

_He turned at the sound of his name, and found himself facing the Lady. Good grief, she was tall; for once in his life, he felt downright petite. There was something about her that made her seem beyond ancient, some force that was invisible but nevertheless tangible. She was the most alien creature he had ever met, the sheer power that surrounded her rendering her more than daunting._

_And she had no aura. That alone would have told him she was no ordinary living thing, no mortal being. She had no aura, and she smelled like nothing he'd ever encountered -- her scent was cool and sharp, neither sweet nor bitter, but there was a faint trace of ozone, of an approaching storm. It was the smell of magic, and he'd come to associate it with the most powerful of the cursed._

_"She will come to you soon, Ratiri. Lorna has her own journey to make, before you may find her, but find her you will." The Lady stepped toward him, laying her hand on his hair. "She is powerful now in a way she cannot yet handle, and is growing more feral than she realizes. When she finds herself among humans again, she will need your help. And you will need hers."_

_There was something comforting in the Lady's touch, though it felt downright electric. Ratiri found himself leaning into it like a child. "What do you mean?"_

_"What Von Ratched did to you is permanent," she said. "You will never be free of it, and there will come times when it will try to take you over. Do not try to hide that from Lorna. She is the only one who may truly aid you. I mean it, Ratiri -- you cannot do this alone."_

_He didn't want to know what 'this' was. So far he'd gained a decent handle over that odd inner beast, and he really didn't want to be told his control might slip. Would slip, for he was sure the Lady wouldn't warn him if it were merely a possibility. "Will I hurt people?" he asked quietly. Prior to the Institute, he'd abhorred violence, and he still didn't like the idea of inflicting it on anyone but Von Ratched._

_"You could," the Lady said. "But Lorna can stop you, and you can stop her. There are things she will tell you that will rouse that beast, and you must not let it. You must help her work through her own anger."_

_"What happened to her, Lady?"_

_"That is not for me to say." She lightly stroked his hair. "I will say that it has woken in her more power than a human being should have. You must help her, or she may use it to no good end. You make her a better person, Ratiri Duncan, and you will need one another. You to calm her rage, and she to calm your wolf. She is learning much of wolves, among other things."_

_Ratiri swallowed. "That's…not exactly reassuring," he said._

_"The truth rarely is, child, but truth is what I give you. Sleep now, and dream no more."_

\----

Lorna was indeed learning about wolves, and under no good circumstances. As she'd expected, the stream water made her sick. Very, very sick, so much so that she was glad she'd only had a little.

She'd thrown up her breakfast a good half hour ago, and spent all her time since either dry-heaving or swearing. Her clothing was damp with chilly sweat, her joints felt like shattered glass, and all in all, she was starting to wish she was dead.

Somehow she'd managed to get a fire going before she wound up too sick to care one way or the other. At least it was warm, and when the sun set it kept the darkness from swallowing her.

At first it kept the wolves away, too, but one by one they snuck out of the shadows, sitting at the very edge of the firelight and watching her with glowing eyes. They looked rather puzzled when Lorna sat up again and dry-heaved, spitting bile.

"Go on, then," she croaked, "eat me, if you've a mind to." She curled up again, her head rested on her arm, the heat of the fire adding to the sweat on her face. The Lady wanted her to learn something on this trip, but what the hell was this meant to teach? She'd known drinking from the stream wasn't the best idea, but it was that or die from dehydration. Bit of a catch-22 there.

One of the wolves padded toward her, and Lorna met its eyes as steadily as she could. What little she knew of predators told her not to look away, because averted eyes were a sign of submission -- something prey did. And despite her words, she didn't really want to be wolf-chow.

The creature paused, and she forced herself to sit up again, still staring. The wolf halted, cocking its head to one side and regarding her inquisitively. She sensed no actual malice from it -- only an odd, almost human curiosity.

The one that slunk up behind it was another story entirely. Its teeth were very slightly bared, its tail twitching. The first wolf turned and snapped at it, and Lorna wondered if there was dissention in the ranks, or however it worked with wolves. She transferred her gaze to the second as it backed away, trying not to blink. Something hung in the balance here, though she was damned if she knew what. Whatever she did now would decide what was to come.

The pair circled one another, while the rest sat and watched. Wolf number two refused to back away, and snarled when the first came too close. There was an almost human arrogance about it, something no animal should rightly have. To Lorna's feverish mind it was too much like Von Ratched, and she felt a sudden urge to whack it with one of the burning branches.

Both animals paused, looking at her, and she realized she was actually growling, very much like Ratiri had immediately after Von Ratched's first experiment on him. It was a strange, inhuman sound, reverberating from the back of her throat, and it felt…good. Too good.

The second wolf stepped toward her, answering her growl with a snarl, and she hit it hard with her telekinesis.

It went flying backward with surprising force, yelping as it flailed for purchase on the ground. When it crept forward again it was slinking, wary, and she grinned.

"Not so cocky now, are you, mate? There's more where that came from."

Her stomach heaved again, but she didn't take her eyes off the wolf. It regarded her cautiously, but its teeth were still bared, the flickering dance of the firelight reflected in its eyes. Lorna used her telekinesis to flick an ember at it, making it jump. She felt too damn sick to keep this up for long, though, so she sought whatever mind it had. Screw physical displays of domination -- she was human, she had a brain, and she was going to use it. 

She didn't bother with words, since it was an animal. Instead she gave it images, all the injuries she'd inflicted on Von Ratched -- the stabbing, the biting, the good old-fashioned punches. Even a primitive consciousness couldn't fail to get the message -- or the threat. Wounded and sick she might be, but she was still the biggest predator.

The wolf whined and ducked its head, backing away, so she left off her assault. Wasn't that an odd thought -- for the first time, Lorna realized that the woods contained nothing more powerful nor terrible than _her_. Her curse had seemed so insignificant compared to Von Ratched's, but out here she had no competition at all. The idea would have made her feel invincible, if her stomach hadn't chosen that minute to start dry-heaving again.

_So much for that_ , she thought, curling up and wrapping her coat tighter around her. The immediate threat had been neutralized; she could go back to being miserable, and wishing she could pass out.

Eventually she did just that, only peripherally aware when something warm and furry came and laid down beside her.

_She woke some time later, or thought she did; she was never certain, afterward, if it were a dream or not. A bright fire still crackled on a scraped circle of earth, and beyond it sat a woman._

_She was the second tallest woman Lorna had ever seen -- if she wasn’t at least six-foot-eight, Lorna would eat her socks. Her skin was so black it seemed to shine almost blue in the dancing light, but her eyes were a light amber, shining out startlingly bright in her dark face. She wore a simple garment of dark green -- dress, robe, or bed sheet, Lorna couldn’t tell, nor did it matter, for though Lorna was certain she’d never seen the woman before in her life, she was somehow extremely…familiar._

_And she had wings.  
They were a bit like angel wings, but only a bit -- instead of being white they were black, but black like a starling’s wing, shot with glints of green and blue and purple. The feathers were long and silky, the plumage of an eagle rather than something more tame and domestic. _

_Lorna stared, belatedly shutting her gaping jaw and swallowing. As with the Lady of the Garden, this woman was so obviously inhuman that it wasn’t worth the bother of pretending otherwise. In her bright amber eyes was a depth of knowledge and experience no mortal could ever hope to acquire, and a touch of sadness as well, as though she had seen things no one should ever have to know._

_“Uh, hullo,” Lorna said, sitting up. Perhaps she was dreaming, because her joints didn’t shriek in protest at the motion, nor did her stomach threaten mutiny. “I, uh, I don’t think we’ve met.”_

_The tall woman smiled, revealing blindingly white teeth. “We have, little one, but that is not important now. You will come to know me in time, and understand of what I speak. I am here to help you remember.”_

_Lorna blinked. “Remember what?” she queried. Her eyes widened. “Oh, aye, hey now, the Lady said I wasn’t to remember that, not ever--”_

_The angel-woman raised a hand, shaking her head. “Not that, little Lorna. Do you not know?”_

_Lorna considered this a moment. “If I’ve forgotten, how could I know it?” she asked. “This isn’t some kind've Zen question, is it?”_

_The woman smiled again. “No, indeed it is not. Mother spoke of your physical journey, on which the wolves will guide you, but I am here to lead you through the…other journey.”_

_“So you’re what, my guide to enlightenment?” Strangely, she felt a certain amount of relief at the thought -- she certainly wasn’t likely to find any kind of enlightenment (or much of anything else) without a guide, or at least some kind of map._

_“…In a manner of speaking, yes. You do not need to find enlightenment, as you put it, so much as you need to remember. You are not yet ready to do so, or you would have already done it; I am here to make you ready to receive that which you have forgotten.”_

_Well, that was nicely cryptic. “Are…what are you?” Lorna asked, unable to help herself. “Are you an angel?” She felt a bit stupid for even asking -- the woman had bloody great wings, for fuck’s sake -- but she had lived too long in what she thought of as the normal world to fully accept the idea of a divine messenger. Especially one coming to her, of all people -- assuming they even existed, they were supposed to go to saints and singing nuns and people like that, weren’t they? Certainly Lorna had never heard of one going to someone like her._

_“That is one term I have been known by,” the woman said gently. "If it helps, you might call me such. I am here to help you follow the path that has been laid before you.”_

_There was something in her voice, her face, in her every movement, that gave Lorna pause. She was different than the Lady, and yet they were akin in the feeling they inspired -- calm, peace, and a sense of belonging that was extremely alien to Lorna, because she had so rarely known it. The difference came in somewhere else, somewhere equally nameless and elusive; though the angel-woman wasn’t human, she felt much more so than the Lady. Lorna felt she could talk to her as she would a mortal woman, whereas with the Lady normal speech seemed somehow…off._

_“I…see,” she said at last. “What’s your…do angels even_ have _names?” she asked._

_The woman inclined her head. “You may call me Amadai,” she said, and rose to her feet in one almost impossibly fluid motion, laying something on the moss beside the fire as she did so. “I must go, but I will not be far. Trust your own thoughts, Lorna, and your feelings; you know a great deal more than you give yourself credit for, but you will only realize this when you cease to fight it.”_

_And before Lorna could speak, could ask her what in the name of hell that meant, she was gone._

\----

Von Ratched was immensely frustrated, because Lorna appeared to have vanished off the face of the Earth.

He ran an hourly cycle of every satellite radio band he could find, and finally started pulling down infrared maps of most of Alaska, painstakingly pouring every human-sized blob in the wilderness.

There simply wouldn't be enough fuel to search all of goddamned Alaska. Unfounded instinct told him she was probably much farther south than ought to be possible -- he suspected she might even have crossed into Canada. It was a thought without any rational support, one that logically made no sense, but it was all he had to go on.

He'd touched down in the wilderness again, figuring there was no point searching in the dark. He hadn't properly slept in days, and he knew it was making him a little punchy, but there was no help for it. Every time he closed his eyes, he was assailed by Lorna's memories. Whatever had given them to him had cursed him very well indeed.

Maybe Von Ratched was more of a masochist than he'd ever thought, because he'd brought his copy of _Gray's Anatomy_ with him. He hadn't opened it, hadn't looked at the flower pressed so carefully between its pages, but he couldn't leave it behind. The damn thing was mentally tethered to him a physical reminder he couldn't bear to abandon.

He stretched his legs out, leaning back against the wall of the chopper cabin. It was cold in here, and his breath had already fogged the windows. His various injuries throbbed in spite of the morphine, and he didn't dare take more. The shoulder was the worst, radiating pain all through his chest -- it was a tangible reminder of why he was out here, what he had to do before he could die.

Eventually sheer exhaustion felled him, and he drifted into a fitful, uneasy sleep.

_He dreamed of forests, vast expanses of snow-dusted green under a red sunrise. It was so vivid he could smell the clean forest air, feel the morning chill on his skin. The trees were still, a motionless wilder land undisturbed by even a slight breeze, and silent but for the faint babble of a creek beside him._

_The remains of a campfire sat not far ahead, and Von Ratched approached it. It still smelled like charcoal, though when he knelt and put his hand on the charred remnants, they were cold and dewy to the touch._

_This was Lorna's fire. He knew it with all the certainly that only came in a dream. Yes, she was still alive, though how she was managing to move was beyond his guess. She was out here, but where was here?_

_He glanced around the silent forest. This was much further south than Alaska -- there was far too little snow for it to be anywhere near where he'd parked his helicopter. It would be quite a long flight, especially given how wide his search parameter would have to be._

_While he was no tracker, Lorna had left a few footprints on the bank of the creek, enough to tell him she'd continued south. They were dragging, uneven prints, alongside depressions probably made by a walking-stick. How far could she go in a day? How had she gotten this far in the first place?_

_Von Ratched didn't know, but he meant to find out. As soon as he found_ her.


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

Lorna woke feeling much less sick, though she was weak and wobbly. Her hands were so unsteady it took her a good fifteen minutes to rekindle her fire.

The wolves had gone, but they'd left her breakfast, the sight of which turned her stomach. Did she dare eat yet? And just what the hell was she to do about water? There was even less snow now, and she really didn't want a repeat of last night.

Her dressing her breakfast was even sloppier than usual, and she could only eat a little. She cooked everything she could, though, and wrapped it in the leaves of some nameless bush before sticking it in her pocket. A little bit of food and the warmth of the fire fortified her, but actually walking anywhere was out of the question just yet.

Lorna looked at the creek and then at the fire, frustrated. All she needed was something to boil water in, dammit. Then she could drink all she wanted, without risking another bout of giardia. The Lady had given her a knife -- why couldn't a tin pot have been included? It didn't even have to be a big one. Obviously the Lady expected Lorna to do something about this herself, but what? 

She glanced up at the boughs above her. She'd curled up between the roots of a massive cedar, the bark smelling bittersweet in the cold morning air. Hadn't she read something about cedar bark, years ago? The native tribes in the northwest of America had used it for bloody _everything_ , even clothes, and would boil water by filling a basket and then dropping hot stones in it.

It was a good idea, but hardly practical in her case. She hardly knew anything about weaving, and working with bark would take an expert. You'd have to make it tight enough to hold water, for one thing, and how the hell was she to manage that?

_Pitch_ , she thought. Maybe pitch could be used like glue, though it might not hold if the water got too hot. Still, she didn't have a better idea, so she took out her knife and started to work.

Four hours and three nicked fingers later, she was ready to cry. The soft inner bark wove surprisingly easily, but her efforts still looked like something produced by a drunk monkey. It was flat, too, a little mat, and she didn't know how to turn it into a bowl. She was so thirsty her tongue felt like it was coated in glue -- she would have risked the creek water, if she'd thought she could even make it that far. She was going to bloody die out here -- but it was still better than the Institute. Lorna would rather snuff it in the wilderness than survive in that hellhole.

When she looked up from her sad attempt at weaving, she saw a wolf looking at her from the other side of the fire. Unless she was much mistaken, it was the same one that had defended her last night -- and it had a small tin pot, the handle clenched in its jaws.

"…What," she muttered. Just…what. She was in the middle of flipping nowhere, so where had the creature got that thing, and how did it know she needed it? If this was the Lady's doing, it could have come a lot sooner.

The wolf dropped the pot, and Lorna crawled over to grab it. Getting to the creek and back was no fun at all, but at least the fire was hot enough to bring it to a boil in a hurry. She forced herself to sit and count a full five minutes, and even with her gloves she burned her hand when she took it off the fire.

She didn't bother letting it cool all the way before she drank, and she made herself take little sips, so she wouldn't just throw it all up again. She fancied she could feel herself re-hydrating, some of the burn leaving her muscles. Moving onward today wasn't an option, but she could probably manage it tomorrow.

"Thank you," she said, to whoever or whatever might be listening.

\----

Ratiri slept a full fourteen hours after the raid, and only woke because Katje came pounding on his door.

"Take a shower and get dressed," she said, as soon as he'd opened the door. "Miranda wants us. We have trouble."

"What _now_?" he grumbled, gathering up some clothes.

"Better if she tell you," Katje said, glancing around his messy apartment.

Ratiri sighed. At least a hot shower properly woke him, washing away the grime and smoky stench from the Institute. He debated shaving, but decided it wasn't worth it. If Miranda wanted to see him in such a hurry, she could deal with him scruffy.

Ignoring Katje's impatience, he scarfed a donut and took a painkiller for his leg, limping after her on his crutches. Gerald had insisted he use them, after inspecting the damage he'd done during the raid.

The DMA's corridors and indoor streets were busier than he'd ever seen them, so much so that he almost tripped over someone every few feet. "What the hell is going on here?" he demanded.

"News travel fast," Katje said grimly, unceremoniously shoving people out of his way. "Alice's footage aired last night."

_Oh_. He didn't want to know what kind of bomb that had set off, but he was afraid he was going to find out. He'd eaten so little that the painkillers were already making him lightheaded, and now he almost tripped over Katje.

The conference room she led him to was surprisingly empty. Miranda and Julifer were there, as well as Geezer and Gerald, but there were only four others, only one of whom Ratiri recognized -- Shivshankari, the weather-manipulator. 

"Sit down," Miranda ordered, and he did, rather clumsily.

Julifer passed him a Styrofoam cup of coffee, and he inhaled its fragrance before he took a sip. It was so hot it almost blistered his tongue. "What's this about?"

"The U.S. and Canadian governments are making noises about wanting our prisoners," Miranda said, scowling. "And I'm damn sure the they want to make all those bastards disappear. They want to know where we're holding everyone, and I'm damned if I'll tell them about this place. I hate legal bullshit."

Damn. They should have seen this coming. Knowing Miranda, she probably had. "So what do we do?" he asked.

"Their crimes are all against former prisoners," Julifer said, "and you've come from all over the world. We're stonewalling the governments so we can push to try this before the U.N. We need you and Katje to get testimonials from everyone else not from North America. We're trying to charge them with crimes against humanity."

It was a good thing Ratiri had taken some painkillers, or he'd be getting a headache right about now. "Katje said something about last night's broadcast," he said, rubbing his forehead.

One of the men he didn't know snorted. "Half the viewers want revenge for you, and the other half want to murder you. That firebug kid didn't do much to prove you're not all dangerous."

Ratiri winced. No, Wrigley wouldn't have helped their image at all. "Have you told everyone that Von Ratched left the gas on in an attempt to kill us all?"

"Not yet," Julifer said. "As many of us as are capable are going on the air soon, so we can tell everyone just what happened. I need you four to pick out the escapees you think can handle it."

"What about them?" he asked, nodding to the others. 

"They're our liaisons with the U.N. Once they've got our ducks in a row there, we'll take our case to it," Miranda said. "I gotta ask -- d'you think Lorna could capture Von Ratched?"

"No," Ratiri said slowly, "but I think she could kill him, if she's not in too terrible shape physically."

"I think she damn near did already," Geezer put in. "Guy I talked to said he looked like hell when he left, and I saw his office. Between the two of 'em, they'd wrecked it. If he does catch up to her, I pity anyone within five miles of 'em."

"It is too bad we couldn't film that," Shivshankari said. "Many people don't believe Von Ratched could really be as bad as we are claiming."

"I think I can understand that," Katje said thoughtfully. "Who would want to believe anyone could be that evil?"

"Doesn't make it any less irritating," Miranda groused. "I'm going to need you to testify before the U.N. As many of you that can, anyway."

Ratiri honestly wasn't sure how many that would be. He wasn't even sure how well he would manage it. The interview had been nerve-wracking enough -- standing up before the United Nations was a terrifying thought.

While Katje had a point, it still made him angry. They'd all gone through too much hell to deal with doubt, with the dismissive attitude of people too ignorant -- or too callous -- to care what kind of nightmare the inmates had endured. Fuck them. Fuck all of them. How _dare_ they accuse the survivors of lying?

"Ratiri?" Gerald's voice was quiet, his expression nervous. Dammit. Ratiri still didn't know how Gerald's empathy worked, but it was definitely inconvenient now.

"I’m fine," he snapped. "Well, no, I'm not. But I didn't survive all that to have people insinuate I'm full of shit. None of us did."

Katje's mouth twitched into a small, slightly bitter smile. "Is the nature of the beast," she said. "No one wanted to believe in concentration camps at first, either. We have so much evidence -- they can't disbelieve forever." She didn't sound like she fully believed that, though.

"If we're gonna convince them, we've got work to do." Miranda stood. "Get cracking."

Ratiri hobbled out into the corridor, fighting a very Lorna-esque urge to kick something. He'd been naïve enough to think their nightmare would be over once they'd escaped, but they _still_ faced persecution. Would it never end?

He needed more food and coffee, if he was going to be able to do this. One of the hospital's staff lounges had both, and he ate a few donuts while he tried to calm his temper. He'd never really _had_ a temper before the Institute -- it was just one more thing he would never thank Von Ratched for. Christ, he needed Lorna -- she calmed him as nothing else could, and vice versa. If he had her, he could face anything.

Katje was looking at him with deep concern. She might not be an empath, but she was more astute at reading people than he liked. "Ratiri, I need to know if you will fall apart on this," she said, sipping her coffee. "I would not blame you if you do, but I need to know now. I do not want you to break."

The strength of this woman never ceased to surprise him. He'd seen it in her aura, but there was a depth of steel in her that even her aura didn't give away. She was the only one of the four who had really started recovering from the Institute, and she was doing it with a vengeance. Not for the first time, Ratiri wondered why she hid it so well, why she let the world think she was little more than an air-headed hedonist.

"I'll manage," he said. "I have to. We all do."

"Von Ratched did more to you than to most of us," Katje pointed out. "Well, except maybe Wrigley, and he is a mess. Do not play He-Man."

"You're a bit young to know who He-Man is," he said, by way of dodging the subject.

She snorted. "Do not leave point," she ordered. "If I let you fall apart, Lorna will kill everyone when she get here. You take care of yourself, Ratiri Duncan. You are still human."

Was he? Smell, vision, and hearing were all superhuman, in a sense. He was territorial in a way he'd never been, too -- not about a place, but about the people in his life. Add in that unfortunately savage instinct, and Ratiri wasn't sure what he was.

_Myself_ , he thought. He didn't quite know who that self was anymore, but he'd better figure it out in a hurry. He couldn't leave the other three in the lurch while performing their interviews.

"I'll be fine," he assured Katje. "And if that starts changing, I'll let you know."

She gave him a smile, one of her radiant Katje smiles that was like a sunbeam. "Good. And when we have time, I will help you with your apartment. Lorna does not need to move into a mess."

Somehow, that idea did more good than any reassurances Geezer might give Ratiri. It made it a little easier to face the task ahead.

\----

The next morning, Lorna forced herself to move. She still felt weak as a kitten, and her leg and shoulder hurt like a bitch, but she had to keep going.

The huge wolf went with her, padding at her side like a gigantic dog as they followed the creek south. Sticking close to it meant there was less undergrowth to struggle through, and it was going more or less in the right direction. She must be quite a sight, a tiny, scruffy woman alongside an animal whose back came up to her waist, limping her way along with a walking-stick much bigger than her.

It didn't take long for her to reach a kind of numb Zen-state, where the pain became a background throb, but the giardia had taken such a toll on her that she had to rest about every ten minutes. Despite the chilly morning, she was sweaty with exertion, her steps even more faltering and unsteady than usual, and by the time the sun was high she was so dizzy she had to sit with her head between her knees.

"Well, fuck." Lorna wasn't so used to feeling so very weak. She was the kind of person who rarely got sick -- the last time she'd felt this awful was a bout of pneumonia she'd suffered when she was twenty-nine. Maybe the rest of this day was going to be shot after all.

The wolf nuzzled at her hair, and when she glanced up she saw it looking at her with what was unmistakably worry.

"Sorry," she said. "I know I'm slow, but sure God I can't keep going right now." She might have managed if it was just the giardia, but it coupled with everything else was just too much to handle.

When she looked up at the sky, she saw clouds moving in. So far there were only a few, puffy and white, but she knew just enough about weather patterns to think it might be best to find somewhere to build actual shelter. It was possible she'd be looking at snow by nightfall, and she really didn't want to deal with that without some kind of roof over her head. There were more than enough branches for her to weave together, if she could summon the energy.

The wolf nuzzled her hair again, and gave her a concerned whine. It was odd, how very quickly she'd adjusted to the creature's presence at her side -- she no longer found it at all unnerving.

It crouched down, giving her an inquisitive look, and Lorna realized it wanted her to _ride_ it, like some odd, lethal cousin of a horse.

"You sure about that, mate?" she asked. True, it was huge and she definitely wasn't, but she was still afraid she'd crush the poor thing if she sat on it.

If it had eyebrows, she thought it might have raised them at her. "It's your back," she said, abandoning her walking-stick. She could easily get another later. 

Clambering onto the wolf's back was difficult, and she had to practically lay along it to ease her dizzy head, but it trotted off like she weighed nothing at all. Hell, maybe she didn't -- she'd been light enough to begin with, and she'd probably dropped more weight in the last weeks. Stress always had done that to her.

The wolf's fur was coarse, unlike anything she'd ever felt, and it moved with the smoothness of water. She actually dozed a little on its back, grateful beyond words for the opportunity to rest.

She didn't even realize they'd left the line of the creek until the beast halted. When she raised her head, she found the clouds had swamped the sky, a leaden grey so heavy they obscured the sunset. Shit.

Somehow she managed to climb off the wolf's back, her legs unsteady and trembling from hunger. She looked around, eyes straining in the dusk, and when she turned, she knew why the wolf had brought her here.

They were at the base of a lookout tower, no doubt used by rangers in fire season. It had likely been unused for some time, but it looked sound from this angle, and Lorna laughed out of sheer relief.

"Thank you," she said, and the wolf actually licked her gloved hand before disappearing into the forest.

Climbing the ladder was the hardest thing she'd ever done, and she had to pause halfway up. Only the sting of tiny snowflakes on her face got her going again, giving her the impetus she needed. The trapdoor was locked, but her telekinesis took care of that.

She lay on the floor a while once she was inside, catching her breath. It was cold in here, and it smelled faintly musty, but she was out of the snow. It could come down as heavy as it liked, now.

Eventually she hauled herself upright to inspect her shelter, or what little of it she could see in the dark. It was a little room with huge windows on all sides, with enough space for a bunk, woodstove, cupboard, and not much else. And, wonder of wonders, an old-fashioned water-pump.

She found a big Coleman lantern in the cupboard, as well as a stack of freeze-dried food. By the lantern's light she managed to build a fire in the woodstove, using kindling from the small woodpile alone one wall. When it was hot enough, she made some soup in a battered steel pot, adding what was left of the meat in her pockets. Nothing had ever tasted so good, and once she'd boiled some water, she drank until she could drink no more.

"Thank bloody God," she sighed. Tomorrow she'd take a sponge bath, and wash some of her clothing as best she could. For now, she was content to collapse on the bunk, and sleep like the dead.

_She didn’t know she’d fallen fully asleep until she realized she was dreaming. It had to be a dream; it was too damned weird to be anything else._

_There was still forest around her, but it was a dead, barren forest, glowing weirdly against a starless sky black as ink. The air was still and heavy and silent as the grave, but she wasn’t alone. Someone -- or something -- was watching her, and though the gaze did not feel hostile, it was more than a little disconcerting._

_“Hello?” she called, turning slowly. The trees were like skeletons, bleached bone-white, and they glittered strangely, as though coated with ice. Despite that it was comfortably warm, the warmth of a drowsy summer afternoon. “Is anybody there?”_

_No answer. Whatever was out there didn’t want to reveal itself, for whatever reason. “C’mon, I know you’re there.”_

_Something flickered in the trees, a shadow in this shadowless place. Others followed, flitting images that darted at the edges of her vision._

_“Hey,” she called. “Hey, wait.” There was nothing frightening about the shadows, and as she watched they gradually took on more detail, gaining form and color. They swirled and danced, snatches of visions that jerked past her bewildered eyes. People, things -- she caught a glimpse of Mairead, and her grandmother, and her nieces and nephews -- her old rickety bus, painted and covered in bumper-stickers -- the tumbledown house she’d grown up in -- a brief flash of her mother--_

_\--and then Liam, standing still and quite solid before her, smiling faintly in the silvery light. He wore what he had been wearing when she’d last seen him, the day of the accident -- torn jeans, worn blue flannel, and an Ozzy T-shirt that had clearly seen better days. His dishwater hair hung long over his collar, his bright blue eyes gentle as he looked at her._

_“Liam?” she breathed, incredulous. “Mary, Mother've God, are you really here?”_

_He nodded, but still did not speak. Lorna ran up to him, ready to embrace him, but he stopped her._

_“Remember,” he said softly, touching her forehead with his index finger._ “Remember now, Lorna.” __

_And, finally, she did. Her great mental barrier, the wall that had so confounded Von Ratched, crumbled like an overwhelmed dam, and all she had worked so hard to repress came flooding back._

_They were on the motorway, she and Liam in their old battered van, driving through the sheeting, sleety rain on the way to Mairead’s to break their news. She was laughing, suggesting ridiculous baby names, and Liam was laughing with her as they approached the bridge that spanned the Shannon. The van was warm, heater blasting and fogging up the windows as Liam reached over to squeeze her hand._

_And then, in an instant, everything went to hell._

_They hit something slippery -- oil, ice, something -- and the van spun out of control, tires screeching as it slammed into the barrier and smashed through. There was an instant of screaming, gut-wrenching terror, and then they were in the water, the icy, deadly water and deep currents of the Shannon._

_Lorna screamed -- she knew that much, out of all the whirling confusion -- and kicked her door open. She reached to grab Liam, and found he wasn’t in his seat -- he’d gone straight into the windscreen, and even through her panic she saw the blood that marred the crackled safety glass. On pure reflex she seized his arm, dragging them both out of the van as the frigid water poured in._

_It seemed to take ages to reach the surface, as she kicked desperately, doing her best to haul Liam’s dead weight. Just when it seemed her lungs must burst she reached the surface, one leg throbbing in with agony, her ribs feeling like they’d been hit with a mallet. She heaved Liam out of the river, onto the slippery, ice-crusted grass, coughing up the water that had invaded her lungs. Liam was choking worse than she was, but at least he was breathing, retching as his lungs fought to clear themselves._

_Lorna tried to stand, to drag them both to higher ground, but her leg exploded in white-hot agony and collapsed beneath her-- she’d broken it, and hadn’t realized it until then, when she was out of the frigid water. Her ribs too were afire with pain, and when she spat out water it was tinted pink._

_“Christ, Liam,” she gasped, reaching for him. “Damn leg’s broken…’ve got to crawl. C’mon, we’ve got to get out've here.”_

_But Liam wasn’t moving -- he was breathing, but he wasn’t moving, and coldness that had nothing to do with the rain filled her chest. “Liam?”_

_His eyes opened and found her, glazed with shock. “Can’t…move,” he’d said, the words a choking, breathless gasp, and now that she looked at him, really looked at him, she saw that his neck was twisted at an almost impossible angle. She didn’t know how he could be alive, but he was, staring up at her in dazed confusion. “Lorna…I can’t feel…anything….”_

_She stared at him in horror, but only for an instant, and reached out to brush the sodden hair from his forehead with one aching, bloodless hand. “It’s all right,” she whispered, still coughing. “Someone’ll come along soon, an’ find us….”_

_She trailed off. She could crawl to the highway, but she doubted she could get much further than that, and she wouldn’t leave Liam alone down here. Even if she made it to the road, it wouldn’t do her any good unless someone came along, and if they did they’d see the broken barrier easily enough. She couldn’t leave him, and she couldn’t have moved him even if her leg hadn’t been broken -- with his neck as badly broken as it was, it was a wonder he was still alive, and if she moved him she’d almost certainly kill him._

_“Somebody’ll come,” she said, shivering as she lay beside him. “Somebody’ll come soon, an’ see where we wrecked -- they’ll find us, allanah. We just have to wait.”_

_Liam looked at her, and she saw in his eyes that he knew better, but he didn’t gainsay her. It was an awful night -- few people would be out if they could help it, and it could be hours before anyone else came by. But he let her soothe him, as much for her benefit as his own, and they lay together in the sleet as the darkness slowly deepened._

_Until morning they lay there, and in those torturous hours Lorna slipped in and out of consciousness. She could feel herself draining away, life leeching out of her much like her warmth, leaving her exhausted and ready to let go of the last tenuous threads that held her. The pain had subsided into numbness, and even the cold didn’t bite anymore; a kind of dozy warmth had enveloped her, until it was too much effort even to keep her eyes open._

_Something touched her, something as warm and comforting as the mother’s touch she had not felt in years. Her eyes opened, and she found herself staring up at the most unusual face she had ever seen. It was a woman’s face, ebony-black, with eyes of clearest amber that gazed down at her with mingled comfort and sorrow -- Amadai._

_“Not yet, Lorna.” The words were soft, barely more than a soothing whisper, with an underlying note of command. “Your time has not yet come, little Lorna. There is much you have yet to do.”_

_A hand rested on her forehead, smooth and warm, and one by one images coalesced out of her fog of weariness._

_High tundra, sunny and awash with wildflowers, snow-capped mountains looming in the distance--_

_\--wolves, running and snapping at one another in play--_

_\--darkness, filled with the susurration of wind through massive trees--_

_\--a garden, green and peaceful, filled with the light of a golden sunrise--_

_\--eyes, flat and grey and cold, staring at her with unblinking intensity and a ferocious, churning sea of conflicting emotions--_

_\--more darkness, this time broken only by starshine, the air filled with the thudding gait of many running feet--_

_\--a man, tall and handsome and gentle, smiling at her beneath a flowered trellis--_

_\--another man, old beyond his years, sitting pensive on a balcony with a cigarette in hand--_

_\--a woman, a tall, beautiful blonde Valkyrie of a woman, laughing at some unheard jest--_

_\--a giant crowd, standing at the base of a towering building, bearing poster-board signs and chanting--_

_\--another crowd, this one much calmer, bearing candles that glowed bright against the encroaching gloom--_

_And, last and clearest of all, two children, small and black-haired, playing beneath a weeping willow, the long grass about them gilded silver in the afternoon sunshine._

_The soothing voice broke through her reverie, scattering the visions like smoke._

_“Forget, Lorna,” it said softly. “Forget, and keep it safe, and remember when memory is needed.” Again a gentle touch on her forehead, brushing the sleet-soaked hair from her face--_

\--and then she woke, _really_ woke, breathing hard in the warm darkness.

For a very long while Lorna lay, motionless but for her trembling, staring with eyes unfocused at the rough ceiling. Night gave way to pale, snow-dimmed dawn and still she lay, her beleaguered mind attempting to digest the massive chunk of memory that had just been dumped upon it. It was too big, too shockingly, inhumanly big for her to comprehend right away, and she took refuge in inanity as only she knew how.

“Well,” she said, he voice cracking, speaking to even she knew not whom, “and what the hell was _that_ , now?”


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

Von Ratched was beginning to have doubts. Quite a few of them.

He'd had enough time to himself to start re-evaluating…well, everything. He still firmly believed Lorna had to die for her own sake, but he was no longer certain he wished for death himself. Yes, he'd destroyed the only potentially good thing in his life, but did he really have it in him to commit suicide? He'd spent far too long valuing his own life over everything else to be sure.

At another bolt-hole, he'd finally broken down and bathed, washing away his blood and Lorna's. He even took care of his wounds, something he hadn't bothered with until now. That, more than anything, told him he did indeed want to live. Even if he didn't yet know _why._

He smeared some antibiotic salve onto the wound at his neck. While it might be too late, he'd started a course of erythromycin, hoping to kill whatever bacteria her teeth might have introduced. Now that he was clean, fed, and wearing fresh clothes, he was angry. Still with himself, but also with Lorna.

Everything about his interaction with her had been a mistake. Even at the time, Von Ratched had known he was deluding himself, but that was crystal-clear now. He ought to have killed her as soon as he met her, and spared himself all of this.

He set a pot of water onto his camp stove, warming his hands over the gas flame. This bolt-hole was a cave, the stone damp and chilly, but at least it was big enough for him to properly stretch out in. Stretch he did, and lay staring at the roof of the cave while waiting for the water to boil.

There was no way to undo what he'd done, no way of salvaging something that had never existed in the first place. Once Lorna and all she represented was gone, perhaps he could move on. Perhaps he could build a new life, away from humanity and all its inferiority.

It was a nice thought. If he tried very hard, he could almost make himself believe it.

\----

Lorna woke the next morning sore as ever, but the stove had kept the little room marginally warm, and it was easy to restart the gas.

It had dumped snow in the night, and it was still falling steadily, tiny white flakes undisturbed by even a breath of wind. The sky was so dark it looked like dusk rather than morning, and she knew she wasn't going anywhere today. If it kept on like this, she might not be going anywhere ever, because in her condition she wasn't sure she was capable of walking in deep snow. She had a hard enough time as it was, thanks to her damn leg.

The little cupboard produced some instant coffee, so she put some on while she made more soup, and filled the biggest kettle with water. Working the pump made her shoulder hurt worse than ever, but the thought of a bath and some clean clothes was worth it.

She wondered, a little uneasily, what Von Ratched was doing now. There was no way of knowing what was going on at the Institute, if he'd stayed there or gone haring off after her. The wilderness was so vast he'd probably never _find_ her, but it was worrisome nonetheless.

Lorna stripped off her undershirt with no small amount of difficulty, and wrinkled her nose at its odor of stale sweat. Into the kettle it went, along with her socks, and she picked up a pot in hopes of using it as a mirror. She needed to see what was going on with her shoulder.

The wound had mostly scarred over, from what little she could tell. It was raised and bumpy underneath her fingers, the texture unpleasantly alien. It was a scar she would probably carry for life. Dammit.

There was a greenish-yellow bruise on her upper arm, and she knew all too well where _that_ had come from. What disturbed her even more, however, was the ring of bruising around her throat. Good God, Von Ratched really had tried to strangle her, hadn't he?

Bile rose in her throat, and she set the pot down. Suddenly her skin felt unbearably filthy, and she winced when she scoured at her arm with hot water. She had nothing to be ashamed of, but ashamed she was, with little shivers of self-hate crawling up her back. It was hardly her fault she couldn’t overpower Von Ratched, but part of her mind blamed herself anyway. Physical strength had been one of her few constants, small though she was, and he'd broken through that with what felt like an unfair lack of effort.

_You stabbed him_ , Lorna reminded herself, scrubbing her bruised neck. _You almost tore his throat out. You've left him with more scars than he's given you._

It was true, at least in the physical sense. _Mentally_ , on the other hand…Lorna had always thought she had the mental toughness of a brick, but the bastard had chipped away at that since she met him. He'd made her feel so goddamn weak, so _useless._

She tossed her rag back into the water, and let out a scream so loud it hurt her ears. It was a sound of pure, frustrated rage, as she fisted handfuls of her dirty hair. She had to get a lid on this before she destroyed the tower, but her fury was almost all-consuming. It didn't matter that she couldn't remember any of it -- knowing that bastard had had his hands all over her was bad enough. And the lingering evidence was worse.

_Pack it in, Lorna,_ she ordered herself. She was hyperventilating, her head spinning from a lack of oxygen, and she had to force herself back into breathing normally. She wished she could cry, that she could purge it all as she had with the Lady, but tears were too alien to her nature. She'd only wept three times in her life -- in the Garden, and when her mother and Liam died.

The anger ebbed, but it left her trembling. There was nothing for her to hit out here, nothing she could do but finish bathing and washing her clothes. Unsurprisingly, she found more bruises when she pulled off her pants, but it was her leg she focused on.

It had scarred over as well, but her calf looked like it had gone through a meat grinder. Lorna's medical knowledge was hazy, but she wondered if she'd ever have full use of it again. Right now it hurt like a bitch, so of course she favored it when she walked, but would it stay weakened even when it was healed?

_Add that to the list of things I can't think about yet_ , she thought. The idea of having a permanent limp didn't appeal to her at all, so she would ignore it for now.

Washing her hair was a whole other order of irritation, compounded by the fact that she didn't have a hairbrush. It took a lot of cursing and some painful gymnastics, but it was wonderful to feel _clean_ again. She wrapped herself in her coat while her clothing dried by the stove, and drifted off into a fitful, uneasy sleep.

\----

Katje was quite startled when Miranda summoned her. Things were busy in the hospital, but Julifer had all but dragged her to Miranda's office.

It was an odd room, with three walls out of four taken up with racks of weapons. The desk was stainless steel, its sparse contents organized with military precision. Behind it sat Miranda, looking irritated.

"I need your help," she said, without preamble. "This organization has to go public, and I'm fucked if I know how to do it right. Somebody's gotta run PR."

Katje sat facing her, bewildered. "And you want _me_ to do it? What make you think I could? I know nothing about it, either."

"You're good with people," Miranda said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. "You were in the Institute, and you're pretty. I'll give you a team, but this is your baby."

The thought appalled Katje, as well as confused her. In an organization this size, there had to be a hundred people better suited to this task, so why _her_? Miranda never did anything without a reason, but Katje couldn't begin to guess what that reason could be now.

She really had no idea what she was doing, but there was a challenge in Miranda's hectically blue eyes. It was almost like she dared Katje to say no, and Katje, stupid though it was at times, could never say no to a dare. "Fine," she said. "But I want English lessons."

"Anything you want, you've got it. Julifer will introduce you to your team."

The thought was still beyond daunting, but Katje had yet to fail at anything she really put her mind to. She knew damn well she was good at seducing people, and this was just a different form of seduction, wasn't it? Swaying public opinion might not be a sexual thing, but she could be persuasive in other ways. She could _do_ this, dammit. "I need to pick former inmates to interview," she said, "and it is better I do that alone. I will meet with team later."

"Do what you need to do," Miranda said, and there was something like smugness in her expression. She'd played Katje like a violin, but for some reason, Katje couldn't be too annoyed by it.

_You wanted a purpose_ , she thought, a little wryly. _You have it now._ Did she ever. There was no way she could let herself fail.

She was troubled when she left Miranda, but surprisingly excited, too. Going back into prostitution held no appeal at all for her, thanks to Gerald, but she hadn't known how to _do_ anything else. Technically she still didn't, but no one had ever accused her of being a slow learner. There was a spring in her step that hadn't been there since before the Institute.

It didn't take her long to hunt down Gerald, who looked harried. Maybe some of her good mood would rub off on him. She wanted his help with her English, before she threw herself on the mercy of a tutor -- though honestly, she just wanted to spend time with him. They'd both been so busy since their escape.

"You look like hell," she said critically, eying him. He really did, too, slumped at a table in the break room. His eyes were red-rimmed, sandy hair in bad need of a comb. His expression was so bleak he looked much older than his twenty-seven years. "Cheer up. Institute is gone."

Gerald gave her a wan smile. "It is, but it isn't," he said quietly. "I think a lot of these people may never really recover."

Katje pulled out a chair and sat facing him. "Geezer teach me word for you," she said. "It is 'pessimist'. Have more faith. People are stronger than you think." She thought of her grandmother, who had survived Bergen-Belsen as a child. Oh, she'd had nightmares for the rest of her life, but she'd made a lot of that life, raising a happy family. She'd been very distant by the time she raised Katje, but that had more to do with losing her daughter than anything else. The inmates would move on, even if it took years.

"You're an inveterate optimist," Gerald sighed. "You haven't seen what I have."

"No, but I am going to," she retorted. She had to get him away from this damn hospital, before he fell into clinical depression. "And you are going to help me." Her tone left no room for argument, and she laid out the task Miranda had saddled her with. "I know you. I _trust_ you. And you really are going to help me."

He opened his mouth, but closed it again when she arched an eyebrow at him. "There's no arguing with you, is there?" he asked.

"You can try, but you will lose. Hospital has many doctors, but I have only one you. Is bad enough Ratiri wanders around like a ghost -- I will not let you do it, too." She fixed him with a steady gaze that was almost a glare.

Gerald sighed again, this time in defeat. He didn't look displeased, though. "All right," he said, "but I'm starving. I want lunch before we try to tackle the planet."

Katje beamed at him. Wrangling Gerald would be good practice for dealing with the rest of the world.

\----

Von Ratched touched his helicopter down outside of Anchorage, and walked until he found a small motel at the edge of the city. It was easy enough to make the desk clerk think he looked like someone else, a nondescript businessman. He wanted a real bed and a hot shower, and a chance to check the news. Perhaps it would keep the nightmares at bay.

Clean, warm, and totally exhausted, he sat on the sagging mattress and channel-surfed. There was no news of what had once been the Institute, but there were plenty of other items of interest.

One of the leading groups of anti-cursed had fallen apart, thanks to the fact that their leader had woken up and set his bed afire with pyrokinesis. The same thing had happened to a militant, fringe religious group, resulting in its leader's messy murder.

It all made Von Ratched smile, though there was little humor in it. There we be no second Holocaust out of this, however much some people might wish it. Magic was spreading too fast, and predicting where it might strike next was pointless. Even he couldn't do it, and if he couldn't, nobody else stood a chance. That wasn't arrogance talking, either; he knew more about magic than anyone else on the planet.

The next item, though, made him sit bolt upright. It was an advertisement for a BBC program, the same one that had interviewed Duncan and the others.

"In three days, we will have an exclusive interview with some of the survivors of what was known as the Alaskan Institute for the Criminally Insane. Previously we spoke with four who had escaped, and now others are willing to share their stories with us."

The picture cut to footage of the Institute itself, on the night he'd left it. Black, oily smoke obscured the stars, spread on the wind. Though the camera was high-quality, likely professional, the hand that held it was unsteady. Flame glowed orange on the other side of the building, making the lower levels of the smoke glow hellishly. People scurried to and fro, moving like driver ants among dozens of helicopters. To Von Ratched's dark amusement, they all wore gas masks -- someone had been smart enough to spot his trap.

Surprisingly, he wasn't terribly angry over what he saw. Months of research were lost, all his patients and the possessions he'd carried throughout his long life, yet he didn't really care. None of it mattered now; the only thing of importance was his mission.

But even that was going to have to wait. He _had_ to watch that interview. If Lorna was still alive, she should remain so for another three days -- if she was dead, he had plenty of time to hunt for her corpse. This had piqued his interest to a level he couldn’t ignore.

Lingering here was not wise, but he was willing to kill anyone who got in his way. His objections to murder without cause had died when he left the Institute.

He rose, and went to the mini-bar. It was surprising that such a cheap motel had one, but on the other hand, this was a truck-stop establishment. It probably saw plenty of people who wanted to unwind with a drink after a long day of driving.

The selection was pathetic, but he found a small bottle of Southern Comfort. He'd grown up drinking the finest liquor, yet he preferred this one. It was harsh, burning his sinuses and his throat, but it reminded him that he was alive. Von Ratched had felt like a zombie these last days, numb in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. For the first time, his head was clear, and he sat back on the bed to nurse his bottle and think.

Did he really want to die? He _deserved_ it, but did he truly wish it?

_No. No, I do not._

Free of Lorna, free of the evidence of what he'd done to her, he was re-evaluating everything. Yes, he had made a truly terrible mistake, one he still had to rectify, but he no longer wanted to kill himself over it. There was too much yet to do, to study. Given greater opportunity, perhaps he really could unlike the secrets of magic. Once he'd put Lorna out of her misery….

_Out of_ your _misery_ , a nasty little voice whispered in his mind.

Von Ratched scowled. His motives were no longer a thing he cared to examine. If he did, if he even partially admitted that he wanted to kill Lorna for any selfish reasons, his resolve would waver.

_If she's dead, no one need know what you've done_ , the voice persisted _You will go down in history as a monster, but not a rapist._

It was a thought he'd had before, and he shoved it away again, disgusted with himself. _That has nothing to do with it_ , he told himself, but he didn't truly believe it.

Dammit, alcohol just wasn't enough. He fetched his morphine case, and let the drug soothe him as nothing else could. The doze was high enough to relax all his muscles, draining his physical tension. His mind, unfortunately, was as clear and accusatory as ever.

_You don't want her to be found by anyone else. You do not want her to truly escape you, to forge a new life outside of you. You cannot abide the thought of her happiness, not after she betrayed you so._

Von Ratched shut his eyes, sighing irritably. Lorna hadn't done a damn thing to betray him. She'd neither asked for nor wanted anything he'd given her. _Forced_ on her, if he was to be brutally honest. He couldn't possibly be petty enough to wish her dead because she'd rejected him -- he loved her too much, didn't he?

Didn't he?

Free of her presence, part of him was forced to admit she'd been right all along. He'd been obsessed, possessive, even infatuated in his own way -- but he didn't really love her. And oh, did that realization gall him. He hadn't loved her, and now he hated her, hated what he'd become on her behalf. His life had started falling apart the moment he met her, that maddening little creature he couldn’t control.

Yes, he'd kill her. Once she was dead, he could scour her and their association from his mind. He was sure of that. He _had_ to be, or he risked losing his mind.

\----

It took three days for the snow to stop, and Lorna had to force herself to leave her tower.

She took all the freeze-dried food with her, wrapped in one of the blankets like a crude rucksack. She would have liked to take more, but she simply couldn’t have carried it.

It was so tempting to stay put, but she knew better. Her food and fuel would run out in a few more days, and if the snow grew too deep, she wouldn't be able to walk in it. At her height, the six or so inches on the ground were bad enough.

She took another bath the night before she left, so at least she set off feeling clean. Her clothes were more or less clean as well, though that wouldn't last long. Oh well. It couldn't be helped.

The air was so cold that her face was numb by the time she reached the bottom of the ladder. The sky was blue and crystal-clear, and thankfully there wasn't any wind. If she had to trek back out into the unknown, at least the weather was cooperating.

There had to be a road somewhere nearby. There was nowhere for a helicopter to safely land, and the supplies had to be brought in somehow, right? A road would be so much easier to traverse in all this snow, and it had to lead to civilization sooner or later.

_Maybe_ much _later_ , Lorna thought grimly, wading with difficulty. Snowshoes would have been nice, but with her leg as weak as it was, they probably wouldn’t have worked. At least she still had her walking-stick.

To her immense surprise, one of the wolves came trotting out of the trees. Had it been waiting for her the entire time? The creature actually licked her hand like a dog.

"Hello to you, too," she said, smiling. Her voice was surprisingly rusty, and it occurred to her that she'd actually spoken very little since she left the Institute. Once she'd got over her screaming fit in the tower, she hadn't said a word. That was…a little troubling, honestly.

She shook her head, following her lupine guide. Difficult though her trek was, she felt far more at peace than she had at any point in the tower. Being under open sky calmed her -- the sleepy quiet of the forest calmed her, too.

_Maybe I should stay out here_ , she thought. Civilization was great in theory, but Lorna wasn't sure just how she would fare among other people. People with questions. She was a rotten liar; when someone asked how she'd escaped, what the hell was she to tell them?

_The truth. Just not_ all _of it. The Lady got you out, didn't she? You don't have to say_ why.

True. This was a secret she'd take to her grave. Even Ratiri couldn't know. Once the bruises had faded, there was no evidence she couldn’t pass off as simply the result of her and Von Ratched's fight. Nobody but her need ever know. It wasn't as though she had actual memories to work through.

Either way, lingering in the wilderness a while sounded…nice. It was difficult out here, but uncomplicated. She'd have to enjoy it while it lasted.

\----

Most of the interview with the inmates was disappointing to Von Ratched. Five fragile, half-broken people who answered questions hesitantly, eliciting nauseating sympathy from the audience. There were few details to their pathetic stories he hadn't already known -- only things that happened during the raid were new, and even they weren't very interesting.

Not until the end did anything really grip his attention, and it did so with a vengeance. It was DaVries, in a burgundy suit a shade too tight to be strictly professional. Her face was like a porcelain mask, but her eyes burned like blue fire.

"We have hard evidence," she said, "that will be turned over to United Nations. Notebooks with Doctor von Ratched's experiments, the things he did to us. Things about the man himself as well, news I think many people will not want known. The doctor did not do this on his own. Those who helped him will also be held accountable.

Von Ratched sat bolt upright, something close to real excitement seizing him. They wanted to expose the government that betrayed him, did they? That was a thing he desperately wanted to see. Hell, that was a thing in he would aid in.

No, his death was out of the question, now. He would deal with Lorna, and then he would watch with relish.

Of course, he still had to _find_ her. It was maddening that he still had no means of actually tracking her. She could be anywhere in the Canadian wilds, and hunting her could take months. Oh, how he wished that magic worked as it did in books, that he could simply cast a spell to track her. Formidable though his telepathic range was, it only extended a little over a mile. He wouldn't find her until he was right on top of her.

The wording of that thought made him wince a little. No matter. Come nightfall he would leave -- until then, he had better try to sleep. This might be the last time he'd see a real bed for a long while.

That was easier said than done, though, especially when he was filled with such anticipation. He had to force himself to be calm, and then he had to take a near-suicidal dose of morphine. For this, he would deal with the nightmares.

His hands were quite steady as he injected himself, and then he lay back and let his mind wander. He'd never thought he would enjoy anything again, but this could be the best diversion he'd ever known. It could force aside the thought of what he'd done, the one line he'd told himself he'd never cross. They would pay -- they would _all_ pay.

\----

So this was public relations, was it? At least this bit was easier than Katje had expected. True, their first interview had gone well, but she'd been only herself, then. Now she represented an entire organization -- an organization that was going public very soon.

She was to go before the United Nations next week, and _that_ terrified her. The press were one thing, but the U.N…. It didn't help that Miranda was going with her, though at least Julifer was coming along as well, to babysit her. Privately, Katje wondered a little about Julifer's total devotion to her boss. It went above and beyond the strictly professional.

It was going to take both her and Katje to mold Miranda into something a little more palatable to the outside world. The woman was even more blunt than Lorna, and she could be horribly profane if she wasn't careful. Her formidable presence might be an asset, but Katje still thought it would be safest to limit her actual speeches.

Currently, both Julifer and Miranda were in Katje's apartment, parked on her couch with mugs of tea. Julifer looked strained, and Miranda was outright mutinous.

"I'm not wearing a suit," she said flatly. "Other military officers wear their uniforms, don't they?"

Katje, who was ready to tear her own hair out, sighed. "Going public looking like military for is a bad idea," she said. "People are afraid of Gifted already. Julifer, what is the word I want? Not 'hostile', but something like it."

"Confrontational?" Julifer offered.

"That. We go in front of them like normal people, we call ourselves Gifted, not cursed or altered. You give me this job, Miranda, so you listen to me," Katje added, glaring.

Miranda's lips twitched into a small smile. "That I did," she said. "But I'm still not wearing a bloody business suit."

"How about black slacks and a black shirt?" Julifer suggested, trying to play peacemaker.

"I suppose I could do that," Miranda said grudgingly.

It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. "Fine. But I do your hair." Katje's glare intensified, daring her to argue. She got the feeling not many people were willing to butt heads with Miranda like this, but nobody had ever called Katje DaVries a pushover. She got what she wanted, no matter what.

Miranda's smile widened, though her expression was wry. There was a measure of respect in her blue eyes. "I knew I gave you this job for a reason. Do your thing, if you really have to."

Well, there was one hurdle out of the way. Geezer and Gerald were going with the little delegation, and they'd rounded up a translator, just in case Katje garbled her English out of nervousness. Ratiri refused to go anywhere until they'd found Lorna, and Katje couldn't find it in her to blame him. Keeping him away from this level of stress was probably a good idea anyway.

"I do," she said firmly. "This will work. Have Gerald go over our evidence, though. He is doctor, and I do not trust my English yet."

"You're getting better at it," Julifer assured her. "Fuck of a lot better than I'd do with Dutch, if our positions were reversed."

Her words warmed Katje, though they brought up a whole other issue. "No swearing, you two. _That_ would make us look terrible."

"Gotta say, I already kinda hate the outside world," Miranda groused. For the first time, Katje wondered just how much time either woman had actually _spent_ outside the DMA. Just how many of its people had been born and raised here? The longer she spent in this warren, the more she realized it was kind of its own small nation. One that had prejudices like any other.

That was a headache best dealt with later. "No saying anything like that, either," she said. "We must show our best side."

"Which apparently means looking like neutered house pets," Miranda grumbled.

"Hush. We show more of ourselves once we convince world we don't want to kill them all. Neither of you were ever normal person. You do not know how they think."

Julifer actually looked startled. "I never thought of that."

" _I_ did," Miranda said. "It's part of why Katje's got this job." She sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose. "We've been isolated way too long. It's the downside of being so literally removed from the world. Dealing with our liaisons out there obviously hasn't been enough."

"Yes, well, now you have people like me. You better start working on speech now."

"Speeches," Julifer corrected.

Katje growled. "I hate your language. Singular, plural, words that look the same but mean different things how you pronounce them, and eight hundred words that _almost_ mean the same damn thing. I hate the word 'the'. Half your rules make no _sense_."

Miranda grinned. "That's why you have tutors."

Someone hammered on the door before Katje could come up with a retort. Her heart lurched when she rose to answer it, and she found herself faced with a red-faced young man, panting as he tried to catch his breath.

"Von Ratched's been spotted," he gasped. "Just outside Anchorage. One of our scouts saw him leaving a motel."

Miranda leapt to her feet, her eyes blazing with anticipation. Her expression was absolutely feral. 

"Was he alone?" Katje asked.

"Yeah. If Lorna's still alive, she's not with him."

"Of course she is alive," Katje said. "She is too stubborn to die." She wondered how Lorna would get along with Miranda. They'd either adore one another, or try to kill each other. Either way, it would be a meeting worth watching.

Miranda bolted out of the apartment, Julifer hot on her heels. They had to know there would be no taking Von Ratched alive, but if they were very, very lucky, they just might be able to kill him. Provided, of course, that he didn't kill them first.

\----

Von Ratched's dreams had been very odd, even by his standards.

Usually, when he took so much morphine, he didn't dream at all. This time, though, he would swear he saw visions.

There was a lookout tower in a snowy forest, one likely used by fire-spotters in summer. Around it, scattered through the snow, were very small, uneven footprints, alongside dragging marks probably made by a walking-stick. There were also, disturbingly, huge paw-prints that had to have come from a wolf.

Where was this place? _Where?_ Such small feet had to belong to Lorna -- if he could find the tower, he could find her, for she couldn't possibly have gone far. Not if she was as heavily dependant on her stick as the tracks suggested.

He needed a forest-service map. There couldn't be that many lookout towers in western Canada, and he was more sure than ever that that was where Lorna was.

He showered and dressed in a hurry, determined to get his hands on a map by any means necessary. He'd have to steal a car for now, one of the rigs parked out front, though he also need a mind to rifle through, to figure out how to drive the thing. Von Ratched had many gifts, but knowledge of how to drive an eighteen-wheeler was not among them. He'd get a map, he'd get his helicopter, and he'd hunt down his wayward victim.

It would all be over soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Von Ratched, you are such a raging hypocrite. At least you deserve what's coming to you.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That graphic warning violence must rear its head again in this chapter.

Lorna was uneasy, and was growing increasingly pissed off about it. Bone-deep instinct was screaming at her that something was wrong -- _very_ wrong.

It made no sense. Even if she hadn't been capable of fending off any attacking wildlife, she had her wolf-guide with her. There was nothing in this forest more dangerous than her, so why the nervousness? Her heart was pounding, unwarranted adrenaline flooding her system, her stomach in a hard knot that was almost painful, and it made no _sense_. Even if someone was hunting her with infrared, there were so many animals in the woods that they'd have a hell of a time finding her -- and she'd hear a helicopter literally a mile away, if not further.

_Peace_ , she ordered herself. _If something is on your tail, you can't afford to fear it._

Lorna paused, letting the tranquility of the forest surround her. The sun was slanting to evening, panting the snowy trees gold. Her leg and her shoulder ached abominably, but she was more than used to it by now. Her walk had kept her warm in spite of the steadily dropping temperature, and all around her was complete silence.

And it would be dark soon. No sane hunter would pursue her through the woods at night, by air or on land -- although she wondered it would be safe to build a fire. Even under the cover of the trees, the smoke would be visible in the sky.

_Fuck it_ , she thought. She was tired of running -- let whatever chased her find her. She could always kill it when it did.

"Shite's going to get real," she said to her wolf, who gave her a curious look. "When it comes down to it, you run, you hear me? I'll not get you killed on my account." If the creature truly was one of the Lady's pets, maybe it _couldn’t_ die, but she didn't want to chance it.

Anxiety twisted her gut as she set about gathering what dry firewood she could find, but it was joined by anticipation. Lorna had suspected for a while now that her power had grown, but she'd never had a real opportunity to test it. If Von Ratched was her hunter -- and she couldn't imagine who else it would be -- she'd have her chance for revenge. And oh, would she take it.

She kindled her fire beneath a massive Douglas fir, the branches having kept the worst of the snow from its base. The flames danced red and orange, casting a flickering pattern of light and shadow over the huge roots. Her wolf, as always, sat a little removed, but close enough to enjoy the warmth. The heat tightened the skin of Lorna's face, aggravating her snow-reflected sunburn, but it was welcome.

She busied herself fixing dinner, melting snow in a pot of powdered soup. It smelled much better than she knew it would taste, but anything was still a nice change from her steady diet of meat. If she killed Von Ratched, her wolf could gorge itself. Morbid though the thought was, she kind of wanted to watch.

_What in bloody fuck am I turning into?_ she thought. She'd always had a nasty temper, true, but she'd never been this vicious before the Institute. Sure, she'd wanted a few people to drop dead in the past, but she certainly never would have killed them herself. Even her father, God rot him, had been an accident. Now, though…she'd already killed two people on purpose, the chopper pilots who'd gone down with their helicopters during the first, failed escape. And Von Ratched she would happily kill with her bare hands. Yes, what _was_ she becoming?

_You're a murderer, Lorna Donovan, and there's no getting around that. Those pilots went down by defense, but they're still dead by your hand. So to speak._

Jesus, why was that thought picking _now_ to trouble her so? It had lingered at the back of her mind since she'd done it, but only now did the guilt land on her like a brick.

_Von Ratched's different_ , she told herself, dragging the pot off the fire. _If ever anyone on this planet deserved death, it's him._

_But do you have to be the one who gives it to him?_

The thought was not her own -- the mental voice sounded very much like the Lady. Lorna scowled, setting the pot in the snow to cool a little. She couldn’t think of anyone who had more right to it than her. And if she didn't, she'd be forever waiting for the other shoe to drop, wondering when he'd hunt her down again. She was a predator, goddammit -- she wasn't going to be prey for anyone, but _especially_ not him.

A distant but familiar sound filtered through the trees -- helicopter blades. Yes, that had to be Von Ratched. He'd spot her fire, he'd land on the road, and then he'd face her one last, fatal time.

Lorna smiled, a smile she knew had to be deeply unpleasant.

It would all be over soon.

\----

Though Von Ratched couldn’t read Lorna's mind, he could feel it, the one spark of humanity in this vast wilderness. There was no way she couldn't hear him coming, but she couldn't run, either.

There was barely enough room for him to land the helicopter -- indeed, he took out a few branches on the way down. The landing was sloppier than he liked, but he was uncharacteristically impatient. He just wanted this over.

The snow squeaked beneath his boots when he left the cabin, the air so cold it made his lungs burn. How had someone as small as Lorna survived in it this long? The woman didn't have an ounce of spare flesh, and her muscles would have been severely weakened by her long convalescence.

_She's likely survived on her stubbornness_ , he thought, stuffing his flashlight in his pocket. The full moon was so bright that he didn't need it, not yet. The smoke from Lorna's fire had risen through the trees not far from his landing site, though she may have abandoned it when she heard him approach.

To Von Ratched's surprise, he was almost…nervous. The tightness in his chest was not only from the cold, his elevated pulse not merely anticipation. To kill her he'd have to face her, and only now did he realize how difficult that would be.

The forest was eerily silent when he left the road, following her uneven tracks into the snow-laden trees. Not a breath of air disturbed them, and there were no night-creatures prowling about. He might as well have been the only person left on Earth.

The light from Lorna's fire was easy to spot -- it still burned bright, so if she'd left, she hadn't done it long ago. When he drew near enough, though, he saw that she hadn't: she sat cross-legged before it, sheltered in the great roots of the tree. A wolf sat not far from her, its eyes glowing in the firelight.

Lorna turned her face to him, and Von Ratched paused. He'd expected her to be broken, terrified, desperate to flee him -- God knew she had every right to, every _reason_ to. Instead she sat very still, her eyes watching him like cold green stars. He'd come to think her pretty, in her own way, but out here, in this snowy cathedral of trees, she was beautiful. Something about her _belonged_ out here -- she fit, in a way she'd never done at the Institute.

Absurdly, for once in his life, he had no idea what to say. His intention to gently stop her heart seemed ridiculous, impossible. She wasn't just lovely -- even still and seated, there was an invisible but quite tangible aura of power around her, unlike anything Von Ratched had ever encountered. Whatever else he'd done to her, he certainly hadn't broken her. If anything, she steel she'd always carried within her had been tempered, had wrought her into a force the like of which he'd never seen.

He was suddenly very, very worried. This would not, he thought, be as easy as he'd been expecting.

"I should probably be impressed you found me, but you're such a stubborn bastard I'd not expect anything less," she said. Her voice was hoarse, her accent thicker -- she'd had no need to mute it in the last few weeks, he thought, no one who might misunderstand her. "Tell me, Doctor, what is it you expect to accomplish?"

His original answer just wasn't going to work. He'd come to put her out of her misery, but she was definitely not miserable. _Angry_ , yes, in a subtle way he'd never seen at the Institute, but there was none of the anguish he'd expected. Killing her now was going to be a lot harder to justify.

And now, facing her, his resolve was wavering anyway. It would be best for him if Lorna died, but her eyes held him still. There were depths in them that made Von Ratched wonder what she'd seen, in the time since she'd escaped -- there was something about her that seemed almost inhuman.

"I came to kill you," he said, for once unwilling to lie. His own voice was raspy from disuse, lacking its normal smoothness. Before he could stop himself, he added, "Though now I am unsure if I can."

He expected her to scream, to rage, or even to laugh in his face. Honestly, he was surprised she hadn't tried to attack him yet, hadn't lost her mind along with her temper.

But Lorna did none of those things. Instead she sighed, and stood, tossing aside the blanket she'd had wrapped around her shoulders. The wolf stood as well, but sat back down when she gestured. "I'd very much like to see you try," she said, and the lack of menace in her tone somehow made it worse. There was a dreadful sort of anticipation in it instead, an undercurrent of dark glee, and Von Ratched wondered just what his little broken Lorna had turned into. The firelight gilded the silver in her long braid, made her skin look eerily smooth. Yes, there was something inhuman about her, some alien tranquility beneath her anger. She'd issued him a blatant challenge, and there wasn't a hint of bravado in it.

Once again, he found he didn't know what to say. Never before in his life had he been so truly unnerved -- it gave even his natural arrogance pause.

"How did you escape?" he asked, after a long silence.

Lorna's smile was downright unsettling. "The Lady," she said. "You're not the most powerful force in the world, _Doctor_ , however much you don't want to admit it."

He felt her gathering power -- surprisingly large amount of power, drawing it from some inner well that hadn't existed before. _No_ , he thought, _it was always there. She just didn't know it._ "Stop," he said. "You cannot hurt me, Lorna, not truly. And I will not let you live with what I have done to you." The words were hollow, foolish, but there were all he had.

She didn't stop. Instead she laughed, musical and strangely chilling. "Can't I?" she said. "I've grown, _Von Ratched_. And sure God, I'll not be the one who dies here tonight."

Her last words were a snarl, punctuated by the tearing crack of the tree beside him. Snow puffed off the splintering branches, temporarily blinding him, and only his near-superhuman reflexes saved him from impalement when the entire thing exploded.

It did so with a deafening roar, splinters stinging against his face as he took cover behind a fallen log. The sound split the silence like a thunderclap, the whirling dance of powdery snow frosting his hair and coat. Good _God_ , just what was he facing?

Von Ratched's telekinesis fended off the rest of the debris, and without thinking he hurled it all at Lorna. His telekinetic shield kept him from inhaling wood pulp, but it actually took him a moment to regain his bearings.

Fortunately, he managed it just in time to avoid being crushed by another tree, hurling it in Lorna's general direction. This was the kind of confrontation he despised, brute strength without finesse, but she was in her element -- he was fighting her on her terms, not his.

The thought enraged him, filling him with a level of wrath he'd only known the night he'd raped and nearly killed her. How _dare_ she attack him so? He was warm enough now, in spite of the snow that had crept beneath the collar of his coat, heated by the sheer force of his fury. He knew now what Lorna must feel, when she was in the full grip of her rage: his blood sang in his veins, adrenaline lacing his anger with a weird sort of euphoria. All he wanted to do was kill, and kill he would.

Another tree exploded, and another, torn apart from the inside out. One of them was Lorna's work, but the other was his, a distraction that let Von Ratched circle behind her. He knew how blind her wrath could make her, how single-mindedly she would focus, and he fully intended to use that against her.

Which was why he was completely surprised when she hit him full in the chest with a burning branch. The force of it almost drove the air from his lungs, his nose filling with the stench of burnt cloth, and he could barely focus enough to lash out at her with his telekinesis.

It flung her away, but she rebounded with surprising agility for one so injured. I the hellish light of her scattered fire, she looked like a small avenging Fate, a green-eyed angel of death hell-bent on retribution. It would have chilled him if he hadn't been so enraged. The mingled smoke and steam of melted snow made him cough, but he ignored it. He had to get close enough to grab her -- whatever force of magic she'd gained, his physical strength was still far superior to hers. He'd get his hands on her and break her neck, and this nightmare would be over.

That was easier said than done, though. She danced away from him as though her leg wasn't injured at all, her teeth bared in a smile coated with blood from a split lip. She was a demon in human form, her eyes burning bright as the fire -- a feral creature, and all the more dangerous for it.

Von Ratched lashed out, catching her in a telekinetic hold. _Enough is enough_ , he thought, willing to snap her neck from a distance if he had to.

He never got the chance. Lorna fought his hold -- fought it, and broke it. He felt its rending like a physical force, and it sent a bolt of ice down his spine. Only once in his very long life had anything _ever_ torn itself free of his telekinesis, and Lorna certainly shouldn't be able to.

But that shock was nothing to what came next. She lashed out in turn, seizing him, and he actually had to fight to throw it off. Oh, she'd found her potential, his Lorna -- she'd tapped a well of strength even he hadn't known she'd possessed.

His shock must have betrayed itself, for she laughed. It was the most chilling sound he'd ever heard, for there was madness in it, a note of something close to insanity. He had to kill her, because the thought of letting her loose on the world was not to be borne.

Without warning he lunged at her, his fingers closing around her too-bony shoulders as he knocked her onto her back. No matter how fierce or strong Lorna ways, he still outweighed her by at least ninety pounds, all of which was muscle. She'd grown outright gaunt in the last weeks, her cheeks hollow, her neck so slender he only needed one hand to start choking the life out of her. He knew he likely had mere moments before her instinctive telekinesis loosed itself on him -- he had to crush her trachea now, while he had the chance.

The thought barely had time to flit through his mind before a horrible, throbbing pain exploded through the whole right side of his body. It was so intense and so sudden that his hold on Lorna loosened, and she threw him off her with unnatural strength.

Warm wetness spread along his ribcage, and when Von Ratched's eyes opened, he saw Lorna stagger to her feet, a bloody knife clenched in her right hand. She was coughing horrible, gasping for breath he was surprised she could draw at all.

She went very still, staring at him. The madness in he eyes cleared, and she caught him in a telekinetic hold he was too stunned to fight. He was bleeding badly -- he could feel it, _smell_ it, the stench of hot copper mingling with the scent of smoke.

"It's a shame we have to die, my dear," she croaked, sounding like she quoted something, "but no one's getting out've here this time."

She swayed a little on her feet, her grip weakening, and Von Ratched snapped it and lashed it back at her quick as a blink. Lorna staggered again, hissing in pain, her blood loss had left him too dizzy to follow up with a fatal attack. Perhaps she was right -- perhaps they would _both_ die here, would end the conflict they'd been locked in since they met.

He struggled to his feet through sheer force of will, his head spinning, but he didn't reach out for her. He couldn't, and not just because of his wounds. All he could do was stare at Lorna, for her bloody, soot-streaked face was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, so lovely it arrested him where he stood. His rage and bloodlust drained as he watched her watching him, leaving only exhaustion and pain. Her hair had come loose from its braid, a wild mass of black and a silver stained red-gold, that in his blurred vision glowed like a corona. She was beautiful and terrible and so very, very alive, and all his will to kill her wasn't enough to make him try.

How had he ever thought he'd loved her, before? What he'd thought to be love paled at what he felt now, now that he saw in her an avenging angel, a creature so far above him as to be untouchable. He knew the blood loss was affecting him, but that was not the cause of his strange new perception of her.

Lorna too stood frozen, looking startlingly conflicted. Logically Von Ratched should use that hesitation, should turn it against her, but he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to even move.

That refusal cost him. White-hot agony exploded through his leg, and he heard the crack as her telekinesis snapped his left shin. He fell before he could help it, clenching his teeth against a cry.

His vision went momentarily grey, and when his eyes focused again, he saw Lorna beside him, looking down at him with an expression he couldn't read.

"I'm not meant to kill you," she said, her abused voice barely above a whisper. "Your death doesn't lie in my hands, so I'm told. Whatever fate lies ahead've you, it's not mine to decide."

She turned away before Von Ratched could speak, and her retreating form was the last thing he saw before his vision tunneled into darkness.

\----

Lorna's pain had been forced into a tiny container at the back of her mind. Her throat hurt like a bastard, but even that pain was muted. It could cripple her later, when she wasn't trying not to die.

She didn't know why Von Ratched paused, but damn if she wasn't going to use it. He was such a stubborn bastard that his knife wound alone shouldn't have slowed him down, yet he paused, and stared at her like he'd never seen her before. She really didn't want to speculate what might be going on in that fractured head of his.

_Kill him_ , she ordered herself. _He's practically offering his head on a silver platter_. Do _it._

It was only common sense, but Lorna couldn't move. Doubt nagged at her, cold as the snow beneath her feet. It warned her away, and at first she didn't know why. Not until the Lady's words echoed in her head.

_What you do will determine what you are to become_. What the hell did that mean? If she killed Von Ratched now, with this power of hers, would she become a monster like him? 

_Yes._

The thought felt alien. It sounded like the Lady, not her, and it was _not_ what she wanted to hear. How could she let him live? How could she risk loosing him on the world again? He'd done so much damage already, and now she was supposed to leave him with the chance to do _more_? She might risk becoming a monster, but Von Ratched unquestionable was one.

He'd stayed still, while doubt and fury warred in her mind. The firelight made his eyes glow in a way that was downright demonic, his face was a filthy mask of soot and sweat and blood -- he looked so far from anything like his normal self that he seemed a different person. For the first time since Lorna had met him, there was no trace of anything predatory in his expression. He looked almost…stricken, and she realized that the cruelest thing she could do was let him live. She'd broken him as he hadn't managed to break her, whether he knew it yet or not.

No, she couldn't kill him, but that didn't mean she couldn't slow him down -- nor could she deny nature the chance to finish him off for her. If he was truly meant to live, if he truly _wanted_ to, he'd fight his way free no matter what. She wouldn't leave him the ability to follow her, but she'd leave him a slight chance of survival.

She lashed out with her telekinesis and snapped his shin, and couldn't suppress a vicious little smile when he went down. Lorna had to give him grudging credit for not screaming; even she couldn't have stayed silent through that, but Von Ratched hardly made a sound.

She spoke to him, but she was hardly aware of what she said. Honestly, she wasn't sure he'd even heard her, given how fast he blacked out.

For a long while she stood and watched him, while the pounding of her heart slowed and her sweat began to chill. Her throat burned, and without the rush of adrenaline the ache in her leg and shoulder crept back. Her left arm hurt like a motherfucker, too, and when she went to move it, fiery pain shot from her wrist to her shoulder. Christ, had the bastard broken it?

_That's all I need_ , she thought dimly. Her thoughts had grown very fuzzy, distant, as though her mind was wandering away from her abused body. Lorna couldn't blame it -- she wondered, just as dimly, if she was going into shock.

When she stepped forward, agony wracked her from her neck to her toes, and she couldn’t help but cry out. Yes, the fucker had broken her arm, and the fire in her right side told her he'd probably cracked a few of her ribs, too.

With a cry that was as much anger as pain, she snapped Von Ratched's other leg. She had no choice but to move forward like this -- let him have to drag himself back to his goddamn helicopter.

If she'd known what she was doing, Lorna would have taken the thing herself, but she had next to no clue how to pilot _anything_ , helicopter or otherwise. She did think about raiding it for supplies, but the thought of using anything of his left her vaguely nauseated.

She swayed on her feet, her vision fuzzing. Whatever she did, she couldn't stay here, but the loss of her adrenaline high left her exhausted as well as hurting. The thought of walking was more than she could bear.

A faint whine snapped her out of her trance. Her wolf had crept back to her, picking its way through the debris, and Lorna blinked. Until now, she hadn't properly registered the extent of the devastation she and Von Ratched had caused -- between them, they'd felled trees for maybe a quarter of a mile around them, an uneven circle of death. Some of the dryer bits had been set alight by her scattered fire, though the snow kept it from spreading. It looked like the impact of a missile strike.

"Jesus," she muttered, and winced at the pain in her throat.

Her wolf nuzzled her hand again, and Lorna leaned against it. No, walking was out of the question, but she'd ridden wolves before. If she was lucky, she'd pass out before her shock wore off, and forced her to actually think about what had just happened.

She collapsed onto the wolf's back, hissing as pain telegraphed through what felt like every nerve in her body. True consciousness didn't last long, but she wasn't fortunate enough to pass out entirely, either. Her world faded to murky grey, her mind shutting down to the point where even her physical agony dulled. It was something akin to a trance, and she sank into it full willing.

And she stayed that way until the wolf stopped. When coherence returned, she found she was too cold to feel any real pain, her entire body numb. Her mouth tasted like old blood, and she had frost -- actual _frost_ \-- in her hair.

It took her eyes a moment to focus, and when they did, she found the sky streaked gold with the dawn. Once again, all around her was silent and still, as tranquil as though her battle with Von Ratched had never happened.

Lorna had no idea how far they'd gone, she and her wolf, and she couldn't summon the energy to wonder what she was to do now. Most of her supplies had been buried in the wreck she'd left behind; she had only the knife, still caked with Von Ratched's blood.

The wolf whined, and she raised her head, blinking the frost from her eyelashes.

At first, she thought she must be hallucinating. Not ten feet from her stood a building, long and low and slope-roofed. She had no idea what it was, and she didn't care -- it was shelter, and with any luck it would have medical supplies.

Her limbs flatly refused to cooperate when she tried to stand, dumping her ingloriously into the snow. The impact woke all her hurts with a vengeance, the pain so intense and all-consuming that she almost passed out again.

" _Motherfucker_ ," she ground out through her teeth. Her vision swam, black sparkles dancing before her eyes, and she had to roll over to dry-heave into the snow. There was too little in her stomach to bring up, but not for want of trying.

She had to cling to the wolf to rise, and it was all she could do to limp her way to the door. Summoning enough telekinesis to break the lock took far longer than it should have, and she almost fell over again when it gave.

The interior was dark and chilly, but she found a switch that turned on actual electric lights. It was a Spartan little place, she found, this outer room containing rows of bunks and nothing more.

Her wolf followed her inside, and when she'd shut the door and collapsed onto a bunk, it lay on the floor beside her. Lorna was out like a light again not thirty seconds later.

\----

Katje was in conference with Miranda when the office phone rang. Miranda, absorbed in the pile of paperwork Katje had handed her, hit speakerphone without lifting the receiver. "What?" she asked irritably.

"We have a break-in at the Fourth Canadian base." Julifer's voice, though distorted by the speaker, sounded confused.

"Von Ratched?" Miranda demanded, her head snapping up.

"No. It's a woman and a wolf."

Katje went rigid. "What does she look like?"

Julifer sighed. "Hell, at the moment. Little woman, long hair, looks like she got in the mother of all bar fights."

"Lorna," Katje breathed. It _had_ to be Lorna -- how many other people were likely to match that description, in that place?

"Go get her," Miranda ordered. "Alert Medical."

" _Carefully_ ," Katje added. "Scaring Lorna is a good way to get bones broken. Fuck it," she said, standing. "I will go with you. She knows me."

She hurried out of Miranda's office, cursing the labyrinth that was the DMA. Even finding the medical team took what felt like eternity, and then it was a half-hour tram ride to get even close to the right Door. Maybe she should have brought Ratiri, but if Lorna was that badly off, it was probably best he not see her right away.

Heart pounding, throat desert-dry, Katje ran after the team, hoping to God Lorna wouldn't be dead before they got there. Two weeks in the wilderness couldn't have been good for her, especially after being shot, and it sounded like something had attacked her on top of it all. Woman had to be made of the same old shoe-leather as Geezer.

Julifer had said there was a wolf, but she hadn't mentioned that it was the size of a small pony. It sat beside Lorna like a monstrous guard-dog, its teeth bared ever so slightly.

Lorna laid a hand on its head, blinking. "For the love've Christ, tell me you're the good guys." She sounded absolutely horrible, like her vocal chords had been replaced with sandpaper.

"You look like you got in a fight with a bear," Katje said, and then, because this was Lorna, she added, " _Did_ you?"

"Flippin' hell," Lorna croaked. " _Katje?_ " She tried to raise her head and went white as a sheet, her jaw clenching against what had to be a lot of pain. "No, I didn't fight a bloody bear. Can we talk about this when I'm wishing a little less I was dead?" Her voice gave out entirely on the last word, and Katje winced.

"Will your bodyguard let us look at you?" one of the medics asked, eying the wolf. Katje couldn’t blame his hesitation, either.

Lorna stroked the creature's head again. "Sure it's all right now," she said quietly. "They mean no harm." 

She gave the medics a nod, and they swooped down on her like a flock of vultures, administering painkillers and checking her vitals. If it wasn't a bear, what the hell could she have tangled with so badly, this far out in the middle of nowhere? It obviously hadn't been her wolf.

Then again, she shouldn't have been able to make it so far on foot, not in two weeks, and certainly not after having been shot so recently. There was definitely a story behind that, but nobody was going to hear it until Lorna could speak properly.

The medics loaded her onto a stretcher, and to Katje's alarm, the damn wolf followed them.

"It's all right," Lorna croaked. "She just wants to be sure I'm safe. She'll go home when she is."

_The hospital's going to_ love _this_ , Katje thought. She wasn't about to try to stop the creature, especially since it trotted right up beside the stretcher and stayed there. Lorna laid a hand on its back -- for its comfort or hers, Katje wasn't sure.

"She will not attack doctors, will she?" Katje asked warily.

"She's smarter than that. She's the Lady's wolf, really."

That wasn't as reassuring as Lorna probably intended it to be. One of the medics wisely radioed ahead, warning the hospital of their incoming lupine escort.

Katje chewed on the inside of her lip as she followed. She was a little ashamed to find she already wondered how she could use Lorna to deal with the U.N. -- this job was eating up her brain. Lorna needed R&R, as Geezer would say, which in this case meant rest and Ratiri, who would hopefully stop acting like a caged animal now that she'd found him. He'd probably be as glued to her side as that wolf was.

The DMA staff really were terrifyingly efficient. The normally busy corridors to the hospital were empty, traffic no doubt rerouted into some terribly complex detour. Apparently, nobody wanted to risk getting their arm eaten off, though the wolf looked calm enough. Somehow, the creature looked even bigger in here, its paws eerily silent on the tile floor. It kept pace with the medics perfectly, and almost seemed to ignore them, instead focusing intently on its semi-conscious human companion.

How long had it been traveling with Lorna? If it was the Lady's wolf, that explained why it hadn't eaten her, though perhaps not why Lorna hadn't wound up desperate enough to eat it. She'd always been wiry, but now she was worryingly scrawny, sunburnt skin stretched so tight over her face it looked much like a skull. Her eyes were sunken, her hair wild as a cavewoman's -- she looked almost as much an animal as her wolf.

There were so many questions to be asked, and God only knew how long it would be before Lorna was capable of answering them. Katje couldn't even guess how bad her physical damage might really be.

The emergency area of the hospital was as clear as the hallways, though dozens of curious, wary eyes peeped through doorways. Somebody must have alerted Gerald, for he was the one who met them.

Only Katje would be able to spot his slight wince when he saw Lorna. Doctors were supposed to have professional detachment, but this was his friend, and Katje wondered if he should be the one attending her. At least Ratiri wasn't here, thank God.

A little animation entered Lorna's glazed expression when she saw him, and she smiled. Her wolf cocked its head and eyed him curiously, and evidently decided he wasn't a threat. Which was a damn good thing, since he paled at the sight of it.

"Your bodyguard's going to have to back off for a bit," he said. "I need to assess the damage. It can come in, if you want, it just needs to…sit in the corner, or something."

Katje could guess what he was thinking -- having a wild animal in the hospital was dreadfully unsanitary, but no sane person would try to separate it from Lorna. She actually reached out and scratched the huge beast behind the ears, and almost seemed to communicate with it through her eyes alone. It was a little creepy.

Katje lingered by the door as the group went to a room, and breathed a sigh of relief when the wolf really did retreat to a corner. The orderlies had a hell of a time getting Lorna out of her coat, since they discovered in short order she had a broken arm. She hissed in pain when Gerald touched her ribs, and the wolf growled.

"It is okay," Katje said, surprised she was even speaking to the creature. "They must find is wrong with her, and it will hurt a little." She was even more surprised to see that the wolf seemed to understand her -- it actually laid on the floor at her words, though it never took its eyes off Lorna.

"I need a CAT scan," Gerald said, "but I'd say she's got at least two broken ribs. Let's get her into a gown and start her on some morphine."

On an instinct even she didn't understand, Katje went and sat in a chair beside the wolf, hoping silently it would recognize her as a friend. She cringed a little when they cut away the rest of Lorna's clothes -- the poor woman was one big bruise, and the ribs on her left side were distorted under her skin in a way that was nauseating. Bile rose in Katje's throat, and she was shocked when the wolf nuzzled her hand. Yes, it had evidently decided she was a friend, and was intelligent enough to realize she needed comforting. That was almost worrisome, though Katje was grateful for it.

"I'm going to have to get her into surgery eventually," Gerald said. "Her leg is so mangled I'm going to have to re-break it. Katje, can you sit with her bodyguard? She seems to like you."

"I will not have to watch the surgery, will I?" she asked, grimacing.

"No. You can face the wall, or we can give you a curtain. I'd just rather you be in there to keep that wolf calm."

"All right. But someone should tell Ratiri she is here. He may want to sit in, too."

"As long as he knows he's not assisting," Gerald said firmly. "He's much too close emotionally."

_So are you_ , Katje thought, but there was no point in arguing. When it came to some things, she knew she was going to lose.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

Von Ratched woke feeling blessedly numb.

The sun was well up, illuminating the total devastation he and Lorna had wrought. The clear golden light somehow made it seem almost macabre, though there was little blood to be seen. Yet it was also somewhat fitting: of course he and Lorna could only ever create destruction between them.

He sat up, and pain exploded through him. The blood from his stab wound had actually frozen, sticking his shirt to his skin -- how he hadn't died of hypothermia, he didn't know. His legs were burning, too, and her realized she must have broken the other one as well.

Von Ratched swallowed, and shut his eyes. There were ways of dealing with pain, of manipulating one's own body to shut it out, at least temporarily. His need to do so had never before been so great, and it took him much longer than he liked.

At least the cold had kept him from bleeding to death. Hypothermia might not have killed him, but it must have slowed his autonomic responses, his heartbeat and respiration. He'd need bandages, and a way to splint his legs, but he would survive. Dying was not an option.

Unfortunately, neither was walking. Undignified though it was, he'd have to drag himself back to the helicopter. At least there was no one out here to see him. Forcing his arms to work was something of a challenge, one he almost couldn't manage. His side burned, and the hot wetness against his skin told him the wound had opened up again.

Damn Lorna. Damn her to whatever hell might exist. Never in his life had Von Ratched been bested so thoroughly -- he really, really wanted to know what had happened to her in these woods, what could have augmented her power so. Killing her was no longer an option, simply because he didn't think he _could._

The thought angered him, and at least the anger was warm. Just what manner of Galatea had he created? That beautiful, terrible creature, her power as borderline inhuman as his own. He'd wanted an equal, and it seemed he might have one. 

_Be careful what you wish for_ , he thought grimly. Von Ratched had always considered the phrase to be patent nonsense, but no longer. His vengeance would not now come as swiftly as he had hoped. Oh, he would have it in the end, but it might take years longer than he had planned.

No matter. He was good at adapting, in some ways if not in others. Lorna would rue the day she didn't make certain he was dead.

Everyone would.

\----

As soon as Ratiri was informed of Lorna's presence, he ran to the operating room as fast as he could. He'd never been so impatient while scrubbing up, and he actually growled at the nurse who tried to warn him to stay away from the operating table.

It was Gerald's glare that stopped him. However normally mild-mannered Gerald might be, Ratiri had learned weeks ago that he was fiercely protective of his patients. And looking at Lorna, Ratiri had to admit he had a point. There was no way to remain objective.

This wasn't the first time he'd seen her look like she'd been in the mother of all pub fights, but it was definitely the worst. It had been weeks since she'd tangled with Von Ratched at the Institute -- her injuries shouldn't be nearly this fresh. What the hell had _happened_ out there?

"Come keep my new friend calm."

Katje's voice startled him, but what he saw when he looked at her made him freeze. Her 'new friend' regarded him curiously, head cocked to one side, assessing him with a scrutiny that was almost human.

"Do I want to know why there's a wolf in here?" he asked.

"Would _you_ try to keep it away? It won't leave Lorna. Has been her bodyguard, I think."

_Not a very effective one, from the look of things_ , he thought. She looked like she'd fallen off a cliff. He held out a hand so the wolf could sniff it, and the creature actually licked his fingers. No, he wouldn't have tried to keep it from the operating room, not if it was determined to stay near Lorna.

The surgery seemed to take forever, though it was actually no more than two hours. The wolf followed again when they took her to the recovery room, laying on the floor beside her bed and looking like it was content to stay there.

Katje, who looked wrung-out and exhausted, left Ratiri to his vigil. He had a nurse fetch him a brush, and he patiently set about teasing the snarls from Lorna's hair. It needed washing -- he'd do that as soon as he got a chance.

"What the hell happened to you, Lorna?" he asked, working at a particularly persistent tangle. "You escaped, you wound up so much further south than you ever should have managed on your own, and you've a bloody wolf who won't leave your side." From the bruises around her throat, he was guessing she wouldn't be telling her story verbally. Had Von Ratched caught up to her? And if so, where was he?

_Maybe she really did kill him this time_. It was the only theory that made any sense -- Von Ratched never would have let Lorna escape him again, not if he was still alive.

The thought was chilling. No matter how many times she'd drawn blood from him, Von Ratched had almost seemed invulnerable, immortal. Lorna had tried to tear his throat out, for God's sake, and he'd shrugged it off far more easily than any normal human being should have. The idea that he might now be dead in the forest was pleasing, but it was also damn unnerving.

"I wish you could talk," Ratiri said to the wolf. "I wish you could tell me what you saw. I wonder how long you plan on sticking around, too." Were he and Lorna going to wind up with a permanent lupine pet? He could only imagine how much it would need to eat. Speaking of that, he should probably send someone to the cafeteria for some fresh meat -- a lot of it. Talk about unsanitary.

He realized his mind was wandering, and wondered if he was in shock. He'd spent so much time missing Lorna, and fearing for her, and it was hard to believe she was really here now. After all the dreams he'd had of her return, he kept expecting to wake up alone again.

To his immense surprise, she woke up not long after he'd finished with her hair. Well, her eyes opened, anyway -- she didn't seem at all aware of her surroundings. Her fingers closed around his when he took her hand, but her eyes were glazed, staring at nothing. At least her expression was peaceful, as was her aura. Who knew how much that would change, when she regained coherence.

\----

Lorna woke feeling like she was floating. She had just enough cognizance to realize she was high as a kite, but that was all she knew. Where she was, how she'd got here -- both were mysteries she didn't have the energy or brain power to work out just yet. She was warm and clean, and for a long while, that was all she cared about. Even opening her eyes was too much effort.

Eventually, she registered an IV line in her arm, and that snapped her eyes open. For one horrible, disoriented moment, she thought she was back at the Institute, trapped, her journey through the wilderness nothing but a dream.

But then Ratiri said her name, and the warm tongue of her wolf touched her hand, and Lorna almost wept with relief. Yes, she was in a hospital, but this wasn't the Institute. She was safe, and Von Ratched was more than likely dead.

She tried to ask where she was, but her abused, parched throat refused to make a sound. Ratiri raised the bed so she could sit up, and placed a few ice chips in her mouth.

_Where am I?_ she sent him.

"The DMA. It's a long story, but you're safe now. We all are."

_Got a damn long story myself,_ she told him. A story that was going to have some careful editing, but it was long nonetheless.

"I'm sure you do. Once you've been awake a while, there are a few people who will want to see you."

Lorna was certain there were. She hoped she had enough energy to deal with it.  
She sucked on more ice chips while Ratiri told her about the DMA, about their raid of the Institute and rescue of the other inmates.

"Don't let Katje badger you into going before the U.N.," he warned. "I know she'll try. Gerald had to re-break your leg, and with your ribs, you have to rest a while."

Lorna made a face en lieu of answering. She'd had enough of that prior to her escape.

The fact of her safety hadn't really sunk in yet. Pat of it had to be the drugs, but that wasn't the whole of it. No matter what the Lady had said, a corner of Lorna's mind hadn't really believed she'd ever find civilization. At least she was too doped up to feel trapped -- yet. That, she thought fuzzily, would come later.

She must have fallen asleep at some point. It seemed like her head had cleared between one blink and the next, and Ratiri was no longer the only person in the room. Katje, Gerald, and Geezer had crowded in as well, all carefully avoiding the wolf. To Lorna's vague irritation, they looked worried.

"Will you leave off the funeral faces?" she croaked. Her voice sounded like someone had scrubbed her throat with lye. "I'll not drop dead if you breathe wrong."

Katje smiled as only she could, radiant and lovely. Gerald had the grace to look sheepish, but Geezer raised an eyebrow.

"Don't think a chainsaw'd kill you, lass," he said. "Good to see you in one piece. More or less."

Lorna laughed, and winced. Whatever painkiller she was on wasn't enough to fully soothe her ribs. "Fuck going gently into the good night," she said. "God knows the night tried."

"What did you do to it?" Gerald asked, completely serious.

She grinned. "I set it on fire."

Katje tried to choke back a giggle, and failed. "Of course you did."

"Now don't think you're getting up any time soon," Gerald said sternly. "I mean it, Lorna. You're on bed rest until I say otherwise."

"Have I got to do it in here?" she asked, a little plaintively. "I've had enough've bloody hospitals."

"I want to keep you under observation for a few days," he said, "but you can go convalesce in Ratiri's apartment after that, so long as you behave yourself. Try to move around too soon and I'll drag you right back here."

"Aye, Captain," she said, tilting a salute and wincing again. "Now shove off, you lot. I'm tired."

Ratiri and the wolf stayed, unsurprisingly. Their presence meant she had no qualms about going back to sleep.

\----

Gerald busied himself reading over Lorna's chart, checking her bloodwork. She was remarkably healthy for someone who had spent two weeks in the wilderness, eating God knew what. Underweight, yes, and dehydrated, but she wasn't even malnourished. White count was good, no anemia or infection -- 

Oh.

Uh-oh.

He needed to talk to Lorna, and they needed to get her off morphine ASAP. _Assuming it's not too late to be pointless_ , he thought, all but running.

Ratiri and -- thankfully -- the wolf were both absent. Lorna was dozing, and Gerald hoped she could be roused into something like lucidity.

"Hey," she said. Her abused voice still couldn't do much more than croak.

"Are you awake enough to answer some questions?" he asked, pulling up a chair.

"Why?" she countered, and the wariness in her voice told him she was more or less cognizant.

"It's important. When did you last have your period?"

Lorna looked at him like he was insane, but after a moment, she frowned. "Not since before you lot escaped," she said, and her comprehension was an uncomfortable thing to behold. She wasn't glad -- she was completely terrified. "Ratiri and I -- the night before I got you all out -- oh, _Christ_." Her eyes widened. _I've been pumped full've drugs for a month and half, she sent him, evidently not trusting her vocal cords, and then I was out there -- sure God, what could that've done to a baby? How the hell've I not miscarried_ already?

"My guess is the kid's as tough as you are," Gerald said. "I have to take you off the morphine, and we'll start you on a prenatal regimen right away."

"Is it even going to come out a baby, after all that?" she asked aloud. "I don't even know what all Von Ratched had me doped on." She swallowed, pale beneath her sunburn.

Gerald wished he could reassure her, but there was no way to do so without flat-out lying. "We'll see," he said. "I promise we'll take good care of you. I want to get you in for a proper ultrasound, too." He squeezed Lorna's hand. "Do you want me to tell Ratiri?"

"No," she said, swallowing again. "No, I'll do it."

"I'll send a nurse in with more pain medication," he promised. "It won't be as effective as morphine, but it won't harm the fetus."

He felt like a coward, leaving her alone with that bombshell, but he was afraid she'd lose it on him if he stayed, and he frankly couldn't blame her. At two months, there was still a chance she'd lose it -- though if she hadn't done so by now, she probably wouldn't. He wasn't kidding when he said the fetus had to be as tough as its mother.

He made an appointment for an ultrasound, and dispatched a nurse with the appropriate medications. Honestly, he needed a drink -- and Ratiri would, too, more than likely. Obviously he loved Lorna, but this was a hell of a way to start a family.

\----

Lorna was even more terrified than she'd let on. It hadn't occurred to her at all, to wonder why she'd never got her period while she was prisoner after the escape -- she'd been too drugged and angry to spare it a thought. And _drugged_ was exactly the problem. She'd seen a few babies that had been delivered from addict mothers -- she knew how bad it could be. 

And that was entirely beside having been shot, having spent weeks living off meat and water, and then that battle at the end with Von Ratched. Von fucking Ratched, who'd pumped her full of so many drugs…shit, she might miscarry soon anyway.

_Two months isn't that far along_ , she thought. _And the kid's got to be stunted, or I'd be starting to show by now, right?_ Her knowledge of pregnancy was pretty hazy, because she'd miscarried her first kid so early on.

And then there was Ratiri. She knew he loved her, but they hadn't actually been _together_ for very long at all, and this was a big bombshell to drop on a guy. He might panic as much as she was doing -- especially since he was a doctor, and would know just how much damage the last two months could have done.

Speak of the devil, he and the wolf chose that moment to return. He was carrying a bowl of what smelled like chicken broth, but Lorna had no appetite at all.  
"What's wrong?" he asked, setting the bowl on her bed-tray.

There was really no way to break this to him gently. "I'm pregnant," she said bluntly. "And I'm scared shitless."

To her surprise, Ratiri _didn't_ look surprised. Stricken, yes; surprised, no. "Geezer told me that would happen eventually," he said, collapsing into the chair beside her bed. "I didn't think he meant right _now_ , though."

Lorna blinked, totally thrown off-guard. "Wish he'd warned _me_ ," she said.

"I don't think he knew, before we'd escaped," Ratiri sighed.

She rubbed her eyes with the hells of her hands. "I feel like a right idiot," she said. "I didn't think anything of it, when I didn't get my period. I was too busy thinking up ways to kill Von Ratched. Be honest with me, allanah: after all the morphine I was on, how much damage could we be looking at here?"

He looked like he wanted to lie, but he had to know how pointless that would be. "Maybe a lot," he admitted. "Possible mental retardation, physical birth defects, or both. I'm sure you've heard the term 'crack baby'."

Lorna winced. "I've seen a few." She paused. "D'you…d'you think I should get rid've it?"

"Do you want to?" he asked.

"No." She'd never thought she'd be able to have children, and if she aborted this one, she might not have another. She wasn't getting any younger. "But I'm scared." 

It was an enormous admission for her, even to Ratiri. It would turn to anger eventually, as her fear always did, but right now she was too stunned to be properly pissed at Von Ratched and his drugs.

Ratiri reached out and started pulling at her aura. "It will be all right," he said. "We'll make this work. We make everything work."

The surety in his voice calmed her even more than his work on her aura. When not in the grip of whatever alien _thing_ Von Ratched had saddled him with, Ratiri was easily the most sensible person Lorna had ever known.

"Miranda wants to talk to you, as soon as you're up to it," he said, easing away from the subject. "She runs this circus, more or less. She'll probably ask all sorts of terribly invasive questions."

"Bring it. I could use a distraction."

"I'm sure Gerald told you we have to take you off the painkillers," he added. "I'll keep your aura clean, to dull the pain. Hopefully your ribs will heal before the sprog gets too big."

She arched an eyebrow, a little amused in spite of everything. "Sprog?"

"Blame my father. He called me a sprog until I was ten."

Lorna smiled a little. She was so exhausted she thought she could sleep again, in spite of her worry. Maybe when she woke, things wouldn't seem so terrible.

\----

Ratiri could only put Miranda off for a week, until she got too exasperating to deal with.

"I know she's been through hell, but we need answers," Miranda said. "Katje goes before the U.N. in a week. We need to know what, if anything, Lorna knows about what happened to Von Ratched."

"Just don't make her angry," Ratiri warned. "If she doesn't tear you apart, her wolf will."

"What does she do, turn into the Hulk?" Julifer asked.

"She doesn't need to," he said grimly. "She doesn't have the best control over her telekinesis. Piss her off too badly and she could destroy the whole hospital."

Julifer gave him a startled look. "Really?"

"She went toe to toe with Von Ratched and came out alive. That should tell you all you need to know right there. Add in pregnancy hormones…."

Even Miranda looked a little disturbed. Powerful Gifted were one thing, but when you added in the cranky pregnancy factor, it could be exponentially worse.

And Lorna was cranky. Morning sickness had set in with a vengeance now that she was eating proper food, and the fact that she was throwing up with four broken ribs really wasn't helping. She spent half her time vomiting, and the other half swearing.

It didn't help that she was still stuck in the hospital. Gerald had vetoed her move, and had to dodge a flying dinner-tray when he did. They'd decorated her room as best they could, but it was still a hospital room. This improved Lorna's mood not a whit.

"I'll be tactful," Miranda promised. "As tactful as I can be, anyway."

Right. Miranda trying to use tact was like a fish trying to breathe without water. By now, Ratiri knew she just wasn't capable of it, no matter how pure her intentions. The idea of watching her with Lorna would have been entertaining if it wasn't so terrifying. In some ways, the two women were far too alike for their own good.

Fortunately, Lorna was calm enough when they reached her room. There was no tinge of green in her complexion, so she probably wasn't nauseated. She just looked tired. The wolf had to be just as tired, for it was asleep on the floor beside her bed.

Julifer hesitated at the sight of it, but Miranda didn't so much as blink. Somehow, Ratiri wasn't surprised she'd take even that in stride.

"Hi," Miranda said, pulling up the chair beside the bed. "Your boyfriend didn't want me in here, but I have to ask you a few questions."

Lorna surveyed her keenly, so intensely it made even Ratiri a little uncomfortable. "Shoot," she said.

"I need to know what you know about what happened to Von Ratched," Miranda said. "If you have any idea where he is."

"Dead in the forest, probably," Lorna said. "He was alive when I left him, but I doubt he could've stayed that way for long."

The flatness in her tone made even Miranda pause. "Explain."

"He caught up with me, out there," Loran said, and gestured to her bruised throat, her lacerated face. "We knocked seven different kinds've shit out've each other, leveled a good bit've forest, and probably burnt down some've it. I'd been warned away from outright killing him myself, so I broke both his legs and left him for the wolves."

Even Ratiri stared at her. She'd fought Von Ratched several times, yes, but she'd never actually _won_. He'd always stopped it before they could kill each other. She'd drawn blood, but she'd never broken any of his bones, never hurt him in any way that slowed him down for any significant amount of time. In the Institute, she never could have walked away if he hadn't let her.

There was a long pause, and Miranda looked at her with actual respect. Julifer, still hovering in the doorway, was nervous as hell, but Miranda hardly seemed fazed. "What made you spare him?" she asked.

"The Lady," Lorna said. "She was the one who helped me escape so far from the Institute, and she told me, in a roundabout way, that if I outright killed him I'd become something like him. So I gave him a chance, even if it was a small one."

Now Miranda froze. Ratiri had privately wondered just how many of the Gifted had spoken to the Lady, how many of them even _knew_ about her. It seemed he had his answer.

"She helped you escape?" Julifer asked softly. "She never interferes, not directly."

"I'm sure she has her reasons," Lorna said, and paused. "She told me…she told me I had it in me to be as strong as Von Ratched, and that whatever I did with that strength would decide what I'd turn into. No matter how much Von Ratched deserved to die, I didn't think murdering him was a good way to start."

That managed to unnerve even Ratiri. Lorna had been strong, yes, but nowhere near Von Ratched's level. However much Ratiri loved Lorna, he knew what her temper was like -- holding that much power in her hands might be a bad, bad thing.

At least it seemed she was aware of it, too. Leaving Von Ratched alive, even badly injured, might not be smart from a tactical standpoint, but she was right -- killing him would not be a good first use of whatever strength she had gained.

"How did you get so much power?" he asked.

"Honestly, I don't know," she said, and she looked troubled. "The Lady didn't say. Von Ratched and I almost killed each other before I escaped -- that might've…unlocked it, or something."

Her aura told Ratiri she was telling the truth, but he knew her well enough to know she was leaving something out. Whatever else Lorna might be, she was an abysmal liar; if anyone had ever truly lacked a brain-to-mouth barrier, it was her. He was hardly going to ask her about it in front of Miranda and Julifer, though. 

"Whatever the reason, I appreciate the info," Miranda said. "I'll send some people out, to see if we can find his corpse."

"Let us know if you do," Lorna said dryly. "There's a lot've people who'd like to spit on it. Myself included."

Miranda actually smiled at her. "Duly noted. We'll let you get some rest."

She practically dragged Ratiri out after her, and he could almost see the wheels in her head turning. She didn't actually say anything until they reached her office, though.

"The fuck's up with your girlfriend?" she asked, pulling a bottle of whiskey from a drawer in her desk. "You didn't tell me she was _that_ strong."

"I didn't know," he said, taking the glass she handed him. "She wasn't, before. Could it be because she's pregnant? Could she be drawing off the fetus's power somehow?"

"Doubt it," Julifer said, knocking back her own drink in a long swallow that left her sputtering. "We've never seen anything like that before."

"We've also never dealt with anyone not born with their gifts," Miranda pointed out. "For all I know you may be right, Ratiri. Keep an eye on her. If she's as volatile as you say, she could be really bloody dangerous."

"Trust me, I know," he sighed. "I love Lorna dearly, but aside from Von Ratched, she's probably the last person in the world who should have that kind of power."

"I won't ask her to submit to any tests yet. Not until your kid's born. When the hell did you find time to knock her up?"

Ratiri tried not to wince. That was a thing that ought to be between himself and Lorna, dammit. "The night before all of us but her escaped. Terrible timing, I know, but we were both afraid we might die the next day."

"We'll make sure she gets good care," Julifer promised. "I just wish we knew how long her…pet…planned on staying. I don't care how docile it seems -- it's freaking the medical personnel out."

"If it really is the Lady's wolf, I doubt we need to worry." Personally, he was glad she had the creature to keep her company, especially now. In her prickly state, Lorna might chase away most humans, but she wasn't likely to try to send the wolf off somewhere else. He'd never seen the like of it before -- an animal so protective of its person. 

"I hope you're right. Katje really, really wants her to testify before the U.N., but I'm going to try to squash that idea. Something tells me Lorna's not in any fit mental state to do that, let alone physical," Julifer said. "Though I gotta admit, the mental image of her and her wolf glaring at everyone is pretty priceless."

"If she'd stop glaring, it would be fine. Unfortunately, half the time she doesn't know when to stop until it's far too late."

"Kinda figured that. You stick around with her when we're gone. Your Gift's so rare you're better in the hospital anyway."

Ratiri was glad enough to stay put. Even now, he sometimes had nightmares of Von Ratched hunting him -- it was comforting to be able to wake up and know there was literally no way he'd be found. He wasn't going to believe the bastard was dead until they found a body. Even then, he'd probably have dreams about Von Ratched as a zombie.

_He got into our heads even when he wasn't trying_. It was a nasty thought, but it was the truth. Moving on was not going to be an easy process.

\----

Geezer insisted on going with the group that went to search for Von Ratched's corpse. _Why_ he was so insistent, even he didn't know. It just felt like something he had to do.

It wasn't a simple task. Lorna wasn't sure how long she'd been unconscious afterward, so she couldn't know how far she'd gone. Fresh snowfall had obscured her tracks -- and if Von Ratched really was dead, it would make his body even harder to find.

Lorna had been headed south, so the group made their way north, stomping through powdery whiteness with snowshoes. So far as Geezer could remember, he'd never been snowshoeing, and it was surprisingly difficult for a beginner. Thank God he'd been working out, or he would have flagged after the first dozen yards. Lorna must have ridden that wolf like a damn pony, or she never would have made it.

At least it was beautiful out here, the sky a clear and flawless blue. He'd rarely been outside since their escape, and neither time for very long -- there wasn't much chance to see London when they went for their interviews. Being out in the open was even nicer than he'd expected, even if it was so cold he had to pull his scarf up over his mouth.

It took almost an entire day to find the clearing Lorna had spoken of. It was impossible to miss, and even Geezer paused. He'd seen the bodily aftermath of her fights with Von Ratched, but this was insane -- he must have lost his temper on a scale Geezer wouldn't have thought him capable of. There was no way Lorna could have done all this damage by herself.

"Jesus," one of the soldiers muttered. "She wasn't kidding, was she?"

"Lorna's good at understatement," Geezer said dryly. "I'd rather not camp here tonight."

"I hear ya. Let's get to poking." They'd all brought ski poles, and not just to help themselves walk. Chances were they'd only find Von Ratched if somebody speared him.

It was a tense, arduous process. Nobody said anything as they stabbed the snow, and Geezer was pretty sure he knew why. Hearing about Von Ratched and seeing firsthand what he could do were two very different things. It looked like someone had hit this place with a missile. This hadn't been a fight -- it was a two-person war. No wonder Lorna had been so beat up when they found her. Hell, she was lucky to be alive.

When they reached Ground Zero, they didn't find Von Ratched, but they did find a lot of blood. A huge tangle of branches had kept the snow from piling up, so the steps and marks of the fight were still relatively clear. Even Geezer, who knew both parties involved, was a little creeped out. Rarely had he seen such obvious evidence of two people doing their damndest to kill one another.

"This can't all be Donovan's," a soldier said, poking at the frozen blood, "but it can't all be Von Ratched's, either, or he'd be here with it."

"Maybe he dragged himself off and died somewhere else," another soldier suggested. "Or something else did it for him. I'd bet there are other wolves out here."

"We can hope," Geezer said, but there was a sinking feeling in his gut. Lorna had said Von Ratched was hunting her by helicopter. If he'd landed near enough, he could conceivably have crawled his way back to it. It would have hurt like a bitch, but Von Ratched was a stubborn bastard. If anyone could pull that off, it was him.

But they stabbed at the snow anyway, heading toward the old forest service road. It was the only place a helicopter could have conceivably landed, and even then it would have taken out a lot of branches.

And it looked like it had. There was no chopper, but there were a lot of downed limbs. Hard to believe though it was, it looked like Von Ratched really had taken off. And it was probably too much to hope he'd passed out and crashed somewhere. Shit.

The little group was silent. It would have taken an almost superhuman strength of will and body to pull that off. Lorna had her wolf to aid her, but Von Ratched would have been on his own, with two broken legs and a stab wound to the side.

"The fuck did he pull _that_ off?" someone asked. "What _is_ he?"

"A monster," Geezer said. "I knew he was tough, but I'd never have thought he could do something like this. We might be fucked."

A long, sober silence followed that. Then, "How did _Donovan_ survive this?"

Geezer snorted. "Woman's too stubborn to die. If Death come for her, she'd probably sock it in the face. Unfortunately, it looks like Von Ratched did, too."

There was nothing to do but make camp, and take the bad news back tomorrow. Miranda was not going to be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bombshells, Bombshells everywhere.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

Lorna, having spent the morning throwing up, was in no good mood when Gerald came to get her for the ultrasound. They'd given her some anti-nausea medication, but it was as much use as a fart in a windstorm. Even Ratiri's frequent aura-cleanings only helped for so long.

"I don't know how Mam went through this four times," she grumbled.

"You never told me you had siblings," Gerald said, obviously trying to distract her as he wheeled her bed down the hallway.

"Haven't seen them since I was fourteen," she said. "None but my half-sister, and I didn't even meet her until I was grown. Donovan's a common name in Ireland -- I wouldn't know how to find them if I tried."

"Maybe we should try later," Gerald said soothingly.

"Maybe," she said, noncommittal. Truth be told, if they'd gone the way she had in her youth, she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

_I should try to get in touch with Mairead, though_ , she thought, as the technician hoisted her gown and smeared cold goo over her stomach. She missed her sister, who wouldn't have had any idea why she'd run. The families of the cursed had often wound up pariahs, and Lorna loved Mairead and her nieces and nephews too much to do that to them. A lot of people in the village had disapproved of Lorna already.

The technician, who had been babbling at her, went quiet. She handed Lorna a cloth to clean the goo off her abdomen, and hurried off with a muttered sentence about needing to find Doctor Hansen.

Lorna froze. Was there something wrong with the baby? Had the woman found some horrible defect? If it could be spotted so early on, it _had_ to be bad. Her heart was pounding as she pulled her gown down, the churning in her stomach not just from morning sickness. All the terror she'd felt when she'd first been told she was pregnant came flooding back.

Sure enough, Gerald's face was grave when he came in. "I need to talk to you in private," he said. "I'll take you back to your room."

Her tongue was too glued to the roof of her mouth to respond. The idea that anything could be wrong with her kid due to that rat bastard Von Ratched and his drugs was almost more than she could handle.

As soon as Gerald shut the door, she said, "Lay it on me." She couldn't do any more than whisper. "What's wrong with my kid?"

Gerald sat beside her bed, looking worried, uncomfortable, and more than a little afraid. "I'm not sure how to ask this," he said, wincing a little. "Lorna, did something happen to you, before you escaped?"

"Why?" she asked warily, a whole different kind of dread seizing her.

"You're not two and a half months pregnant," he said wretchedly. "You're less than one. And I can think of only one way that could have happened."

Horror flooded her veins, and with it came a savage, almost insane fury. "No," she snarled. "No, I don't believe you. There's something wrong with your bloody machine." She leaned over and threw up again, her brain trying desperately to shut itself down. 

Now Gerald looked truly scared, so pale he was almost green. "Lorna, did Von Ratched…did he rape you?"

"Yes," she growled, fighting to keep her telekinesis under control. If she lost it, people would want to know why. "Yes, he bloody did, and I swear to God, Gerald Hansen, if you so much as breathe this to anyone else, I'll strike you dead."

He actually recoiled, the metal legs of the chair scraping against the tile as he backed away. "I won't," he said faintly. "Whether you tell anyone or not is up to you. I told the technician to keep the results to herself."

"I want to wipe her memory." God, it was so hard, _so hard_ to keep her wrath in check: it clawed at her, scorching hot and sharp as knives, seeking violence. Her wolf came up and nuzzled her hand, but it brought her no comfort.

Gerald looked horrified. "I can't let you do that," he said, swallowing convulsively.

Lorna's eyes narrowed. "Then maybe I'll wipe yours first," she hissed. "Don't think I won't do it if I have to. Don't think I _can't_. If she breathes a word've this to anyone, I'll kill her. I'll kill you both."

His face had gone a bloodless white, and for a moment she thought he might actually faint. "You…you really mean that, don't you?"

"Too fucking right I do," she snapped. "I'll not be anyone's idea've a victim. _Ever_. No matter what I have to do."

Part of her couldn't believe what she was saying. It was a testament to her rage, that she would even consider murdering one of the few friends she had. Most of her mind was totally beyond rationality.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but would it truly help, if I let you excise this from her memory?" he asked. "I don't -- I don't want anyone in danger over this."

Lorna sighed, some of the fight draining form her. A little voice at the back of her head told her that doing so would set a bad precedent, no matter how much she wanted to. "No," she said. "I shouldn't and I know it. But you warn her that if she so much as hints this to another person, I'll break her neck."

"Noted," he said, and he looked the tiniest bit relieved. "We won't say a thing to anyone, but Lorna, you should really consider telling Ratiri eventually. He knows you better than to ever think you'd be a victim of anything. You're too stubborn to be anything but a survivor."

It was a little unnerving, just how closely Gerald's words echoed her own thoughts. "I'll think about it," she said. "If I do, it'll be in my own time. Don't go thinking you'd do me any favors if you went behind my back."

Gerald swallowed again. "I promise." He paused. "This is another delicate question, but -- do you want to talk to someone about it?"

"There's not much to talk about." She sighed again. "I don't actually remember anything. I just know it happened because…well, you know. _Evidence_." That was as far as she was going with that, too. "Out with you. I need some time."

He seemed glad enough to leave, and Lorna let out a relieved breath when he was gone.

She'd been so careful to tell herself this wasn't possible. She'd missed her period before…that… hadn't she? Wasn't that a pretty good indicator you were pregnant?

_Apparently not_ , she thought. Some part of her was aware she was going into shock, but that was a good thing -- it kept her numb, for now. Real horror would no doubt come later.

_Did_ she want an abortion? Her gut reaction was _hell yes_ , but it wasn't that simple. She'd wanted the kid when she thought it was Ratiri's. Yes, she'd been completely terrified of the potential complications, but she'd wanted to stick it out nonetheless. Was she willing to let the identity of the baby's bio-donor change her mind?

_The kid's mine_ , she thought, troubled. _It's_ mine, _not his_. Part of her wanted to get the thing out of her as soon as she could, but another part didn't want to give Von Ratched the power to influence her decision. And giving up something she'd wanted until now _would_ be giving him power over her. _Am I really going to let him ruin this for me?_

She grimaced, and scratched the wolf's ears. A small corner of her mind knew she was in no mental state to make such a huge decision, but she couldn't help but think about it. Once the shock wore off, once the true horror set it, she might change her mind a dozen times. At least, so early on, she had plenty of time to reach a decision.

_Maybe I'll miscarry, and not have to deal with deciding_ , she thought. The idea held a certain morbid appeal.

Just how dangerous could this child be? For all she knew, she and Von Ratched might be the two most powerful people on the planet -- God knew what kind of strength their combined genetics could produce. And Christ, what would she do if it looked like him? _That_ was something she knew she couldn't handle.

Fuck this. She was too exhausted to think anymore -- she needed sleep. Maybe when she woke up, this would all have been nothing but a nightmare.

\----

As soon as Ratiri saw Gerald, he knew there was something deeply wrong with the man. His aura was a churning, restless sea, filled with half a dozen gradations of grey.  
"What's wrong? You look like someone just dropped a bomb on your brain."

Gerald winced. "Talk to Lorna," he said. "She told me she'd kill me if I said anything to you, and I think she meant it. There are some things you need to know, and they won't come out of my mouth. I'd like to keep my head on my shoulders."

If not for his aura, Ratiri would have thought he was exaggerating. As it was, Gerald was flat-out terrified. Whatever Lorna had threatened, he obviously thought it was genuine. 

"Is she awake?"

"She was when I left, but I wouldn't go to her just yet, if I were you. I'm not so sure she'll be in her right mind."

Now Ratiri was _really_ worried. He had to see her now, warning be damned. Whatever was stewing in her head, she couldn't be left to deal with it alone.

He hurried to her room, but found her sound asleep. Her wolf came up and licked his hand, and let out a small, unhappy whine. It looked like it was worried, too.

_Just what the hell is going on?_ he wondered, sitting beside the bed. Lorna's aura was as unsettled as Gerald's, but where his was fear-grey, hers roiled with rusty fury. Ratiri didn't think he'd ever seen it so red, not even after her fights with Von Ratched. Something was infuriating her even in her sleep.

With a sigh, he started picking at her aura, hoping it might soothe her a little before she woke. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what she had to tell him.

\----

Some part of Lorna was surprised to find she wasn't having a nightmare.

She was in the Garden, standing in a field of lavender. The scent of it enveloped her like a physical thing, calming her fury almost against her will. The sun beat warm on her shoulders, and she breathed a faint sigh of relief when she realized her injuries had not come with her.

She felt the Lady's eyes on her, but she refused to turn and confront that sad dark gaze. A little part of her blamed the Lady for this, irrational and unfair though it was.

"You could have warned me," she said, staring out at the endless sea of purple. "I know you knew. Just what the fuck am I to do now? The world doesn't need a little Von Ratched running around." Even saying his name made her feel ill.

The Lady's hand closed on her shoulder, a light, warm touch that sent a jolt of raw power through Lorna. "It does need a little Lorna," she said gently. "Two, in fact. Your children will be very powerful, and in time the Earth will need that."

She turned Lorna to face her. "What has happened to you is vastly unfair," she said. "I know this, but I cannot change it. You are pushed and tested so because you are one of a very few people strong enough to bear it. Know this, Lorna: your children are yours, and only yours. Amadai showed you them, did she not?"

Lorna had forgotten that -- forgotten the two tiny, dark-haired children that looked like miniature copies of herself. Naturally, at the time she had assumed they were hers and Ratiri's. The memory made her heart ache a little. "How can you say that?" she asked. "I'm right stubborn, yes, but I know myself. I'm angry and vicious and I've all the patience and tact of a goat. If those kids'll be as powerful as you say, I'm not the one who should be raising them. How can I teach them to control that power, when I don't bloody know how to do it myself?"

"You will learn. You are wiser than you give yourself credit for. Have faith, Lorna -- in yourself, and in Ratiri. He will love those children as his own."

"That means I have to _tell_ him," she sad bitterly. "Bad enough Gerald knows. This was meant to be _my_ secret, dammit."

The Lady smoothed back her hair. "You need tell no one but Ratiri," she said. "Keeping it to yourself would poison you, in the end. You must stop thinking they will think any less of you. If anything would be your downfall, it would be pride, not anger. Forcing yourself to face the world alone is no way to live. And you need not do so any longer."

Lorna's mind automatically rebelled against that. She didn't _need_ anyone, dammit, and the last time -- the only time -- she'd let someone in too far, they'd died. Loving Ratiri the way she did scared her shitless, because of what she'd gone through when she lost Liam. She'd damn near lost her mind without him. Needing people, truly relying on them, only got you hurt in the end.

_You already need Ratiri,_ she thought. _And he needs you. Stop being Lorna Donovan long enough to accept that._

"It's not that easy," she said aloud.

"Your life has never been _easy_ , Lorna," the Lady said gently. "You just avoided confronting it by avoiding all responsibility. You can do that no more."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" she groused. "How am I even to tell Ratiri about this? You know've his own wolf, that animal in his mind. This might break him."

"Stop underestimating his strength," the Lady ordered, but her tone was still gentle. "You do him a great disservice. Allow him the chance to stand on his own, to deal with this in his own way. As to how you tell him," she added, "I would not try to pad the blow. You are too forthright a creature to ease its impact."

For the first time, Lorna smiled, though there wasn't much humor in it. "Is that your way've saying I'm subtle as a brick?"

"If you like. He waits for you, child. Wake, and let him share this burden with you. It will not be intolerable then."

"If you say so," Lorna sighed, dubious to the extreme. "If this backfires, I'm blaming you."

"It will not," the Lady promised. "Wake now. We will speak later."

\----

The red in Lorna's aura had drained while she slept, but it was replaced by grey worry. Ratiri watched her wake with no small amount of apprehension. He took her hand when she opened her eyes, and what he saw there made him go still.

Lorna was an expressive creature -- it was part of why she was such a terrible liar. Her face was as easy to read as a billboard, especially to him. Whatever had happened, whatever terrible knowledge had been imparted to her -- her eyes looked like she'd peered into hell, and it had stared right back. She was weary and careworn in a way that must have nothing to do with her physical state.

"Lorna, what happened?" he asked. "Gerald's aura was a mess when I saw him, and he told me I had to talk to you."

She scowled. "I should've realized that'd give him away," she said quietly. "Ratiri, allanah, I've something nasty to tell you, and if you flip out, or go all cave-man on me, I'll lamp you out."

She was deadly serious, he realized. "I won't," he said, his throat suddenly dry.

"Gerald gave me an ultrasound," she said, each word sounding like it was wrenched from her with great difficulty. "I'm only a month along. Kids aren't from you."

Ratiri froze. He could think of only one reason that could be, and he was enveloped by a fury so intense he literally saw red.

"Stop, allanah," Lorna said, her voice and her eyes dangerously sharp. "No cave-man, remember? Son've a bitch has paid and then some. I don't need anyone else to fight my battles."

The tiny part of his mind not consumed by rage recognized the stubborn pride in her voice, the steely determination that was part of the core of her being, for better or worse. Yes, he wanted to tear Von Ratched limb from limb, but that thread of rationality told him voicing that would do Lorna no good at all. She was stubborn, and he knew her well enough to realize she would not appreciate such a sentiment, and that she just might hit him for it.

Swallowing his instinct was no easy thing. Lorna was right in calling it cave-man -- he wanted to avenge his woman, goddammit. Lorna, however, needed no avenging: knowing her as he did, she'd probably been more inventive about it than he could ever be. If he were to do or say anything her brain could warp interpreting as him thinking her fragile, she might well shut him out and never let him in again.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he asked at last, his voice very small. More importantly, why hadn't her aura betrayed her? That kind of trauma should have been obvious.

"I don't remember any've it," she said. "The Lady took it from me, before she dropped me off in the wilderness. I remember the aftermath, but that's it."

She was telling the truth, he saw. "If the Lady could pull you out, why didn't she do it before…that?"

Lorna sighed. "Asked her the same question myself, though she didn't give me any real answer. I think maybe…well, when Von Ratched found me, he was pretty damn broken. It's irony in its worst form, but I think what he did destroyed _him_ rather than me. And I figured nothing I could do to him could be worse than that."

Ratiri was quiet a while, gently stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. "What do you want to do now?" he asked at last.

"Move forward," she said. "The shite that happened to me doesn't define me. The Lady says I've got twins, God help me, and…I want them. They're still _ours_ in every way that actually matters." She hesitated. "Will that…bother you?"

Strangely, Ratiri was sure it wouldn't. It probably _ought_ to, if he had any sense at all, but it didn't. "No," he said, "it won't. Though I must admit, the thought of twins scares me."

Lorna smiled a little, a bittersweet smile. "You're not the only one. The Lady -- well, I saw them, as they'd be when they grew older. They looked like me, and I'm afraid they'll have my temper." She paused. "I was thinking this already, and now it freaks me out a bit more -- what kind've mother will I be? I didn't have the best example growing up. I'm not sure I'm equipped to be a parent at all."

"We'll manage," he said, giving her hand a light squeeze. "And it's not as though we haven't got plenty of people who will help us. Whether we want them to or not."

"True. Let's just -- I don't want this getting out, all right? Not even to Katje or Geezer. Bad enough Gerald knows. You're the only person I really trust."

Her words warmed him, because he knew it was true. Lorna might as well have had 'trust no one' engraved into her brain -- except where it came to him. It was a weight of responsibility that almost frightened him. "It will stay our secret," he promised. "But Lorna…talk to me about it, if you need to. Don't bottle it up and shut me out. You have to know I would never, ever see you as any kind of victim."

Lorna sighed. "Gerald said you'd say that. My question is, d'you really mean it?"

Ratiri looked at her, his small, wounded angel. The silver in her hair had advanced considerably, and her sunburn was beginning to peel, but she was beautiful in a way he was sure she was unaware of. It was a beauty born of strength, deeper than physical appearance. She was too tough, too iron-stubborn to ever seem like a victim to anyone who so much as glanced at her. "I do," he said. "Do you know what I first thought, when I saw you after they brought you in?"

"What?" she asked.

"I wondered what you'd done to whatever had knocked you about."

Lorna laughed -- a real laugh, that contained a trace of pain but not bitterness. She winced almost immediately, but Ratiri knew she would be all right, in the end.

Realistically, that would take a while -- he knew that, even if she didn't want to acknowledge it. But he'd be right there with her, to deal with whatever hormonal rages she went through, whatever nightmares she might have. He had his own share of those, and having her near would help him, too. Much as he loathed most of what had gone on in the Institute, he couldn't be sorry he'd been there, because if he hadn't, he wouldn't have found Lorna. She was obstinate, mercurial, and almost totally lacking in patience, but she was also the warmest, most caring person he'd ever met.

And just now she did look like a battered, bruised, triumphant angel. Her sun-weathered skin and the crow's-feet beside her eyes enhanced the effect, rather than detracting from it -- they made her real, not like some distant figure in a painting. She wasn't magazine material, but she was all the more lovely for it.

"What?" she asked, and he realized he'd been staring.

"Nothing," he said, kissing her cheek. "Just reminding myself that you're real. You're gorgeous, do you know that?"

Lorna snorted, and quirked an eyebrow. "You've got some rose-colored glasses there, allanah."

Maybe she was right -- maybe he was the only one who would see her as he did. He'd seen facets of her he doubted anyone else ever had, and some selfish part of him was glad she'd shown them only to him. "Don't knock yourself. I'll finish cleaning your aura, and you should get some more sleep. I'll be here, if you have nightmares."

She smiled at him again. It was a weary smile, tinged with grief, but it was there nonetheless. Ratiri would do everything he could to wipe away that grief, however long it took.

\----

Miranda was not happy about being told Von Ratched was still alive, but she didn't seem surprised, either.

"Even if Lorna had cut his head off, I wouldn't have trusted him to stay dead," she said, pouring Geezer a glass of scotch. "Fucker's like the Highlander, without the sword."

"Huh?" Geezer said, sipping the burning liquor. The fumes alone were enough to clear his sinuses.

"Never mind," Miranda sighed. "I'm beginning to wonder if he even _can_ die."

"He bleeds," Geezer said. "He's tougher than hell, but he's still only a man. I have to wonder…have you seen the Lady?" he added, apropos of nothing.

Miranda, naturally, rolled with it. "We all have, at one point or another. Why?"

"She helped Lorna escape, right? Maybe she did the same for Von Ratched."

Miranda paused, staring at him, before she knocked back the rest of her drink. "Why would she do that? In all of our history, she's never directly interfered. It's why it surprised the hell outta me when Lorna said she'd been helped out."

"You're not gonna like this," Geezer said. " _I_ don't like it, but…maybe we'll need him later. _Something's_ causing all these normal people to wake up Gifted, which from what you said's never happened before. There's gotta be a reason, right?"

"I wish you hadn't said that," she said, pouring herself another drink. The woman must have had a stomach like a steel tank -- she'd drunk the better part of that fifth of whiskey by herself. "Trust me, I've thought of that. If you're right, whatever's coming has to be worse than anything in our recorded history, and our records go back more than two thousand years. The oldest ones hint that the DMA's been around a lot longer even than that. What I really don't like is the thought that we might need a monster like Von Ratched."

_You're not the only one_ , he thought. "If I see anything about it, I'll let you know. Are you _sure_ I'm the only precog?"

"For now. You're the first one we've found in two hundred years that didn't commit suicide really young. We call these powers gifts, but some of them really are more like curses. People like you, people with powers they can't turn off, usually don't live very long."

She paused. "This stays between you and me," she said sternly. "There's a good chance that people like your buddies, the ones who acquired their gifts as adults, might not live as long. We're seeing hints of it already -- the mortality rate among the older Acquireds is seriously skewed compared to the statistics of older normals. We still don't really know why, but the numbers are there."

"How come you don't know why?"

"Genetically, we're no different from the normals. Whatever difference there might be between the natural-borns and the Acquireds -- we haven't found it yet. I'm not sure it can be found."

"I so did not need to hear that," Geezer muttered, gulping the rest of his drink.

Miranda poured him another. "I didn't, either. Doesn't help that the Acquireds don't have tells like the rest of us."

"Huh?"

"Well, we don't _all_ have them, but for some reason, certain Gifts come with physical tells. Weather-manipulators are all redheads, no matter what race they are. People with verbal compulsion, like me, are all blue-eyed -- which, again, that doesn't vary by race. The few telepaths we've found -- and there aren't many, since it's always been pretty damn rare -- have eyes like Von Ratched -- and the aura-readers like Ratiri, which are even _more_ rare, have all been albino. Acquiring a Gift doesn't seem to change a person's appearance at all, so we can't tell who's got what just by looking."

Geezer was quiet a while, and eventually he chugged his drink in two long swallows. The pleasant buzz of alcohol dulled his worry a little, though not by much. "I wasn't naïve enough to think our troubles would be over when we escaped the Institute, but Jesus fucking Christ. If we can't spot our own kind, maybe the normals are right to be scared of us."

"Some of us can," Miranda said. "Von Ratched had to have had at least one finder working for him, or he never would have caught you all. We've got a few, but not enough."

"I'm still too sober to deal with this shit. Gimme another."

Miranda filled his glass, and chugged what was left straight out of the bottle. "Come to the U.N. with us," she said. "You and Gerald are the only ones who can rein in Katje. God, I didn't realize how tenacious she can be. Woman's got no fear of anything."

"Yes she does -- she just doesn't show it. I'll keep an eye on her."

"Somebody has to," Miranda snorted. "We're gonna need all the luck and carefulness in the world to pull this one off."

\----

Von Ratched had known things would get worse for him, but that made it no easier to bear.

His nearest bolt-hole was so far away he barely had enough fuel to get there. Morphine dulled his pain for a while, but by the time he landed he was in agony again.

Once again he had to crawl to get inside, and it hurt so much he almost blacked out. How had he come to this? _Him?_ Never in his life had he been so soundly, thoroughly beaten.

This bolt-hole was yet another concrete room, built in the side of a hill. It held the requisite food and medical supplies, and a kerosene heater that warmed the chilly stone soon enough. Several Coleman lanterns made it as bright as any operating room, and, after another dose of morphine, he set about dealing with his legs. 

Getting his boots off was an ordeal, and he wound up having to cut his pants apart. At least Lorna had broken his shins rather than his femurs, and the breaks were clean enough. He'd be trapped here for weeks, but it could be much worse. Snapping the bones back into place was far from pleasant, and splinting them even less so, but they should heal cleanly if he was careful.

The wound at his side was another story. It had opened again while he flew, in spite of the bandage he'd wrapped around his abdomen. It really ought to receive more care than a basic suturing, but there was nothing more he could do out here. He would have to take antibiotics, and be very careful for a while.

Von Ratched scowled, but the wheels in his mind were turning as he worked. He needed more information about the outside world -- he had to know just how much havoc magic was wreaking on it. _At least_ , he thought grimly, _I have plenty of time to listen._ He had a satellite radio and knowledge of the military bands -- he'd know all the things they didn't want the civilian population to hear. And once he knew…well, then he would go from there.

_You should have killed me when you had the chance, Lorna._ Why _hadn't_ she? She certainly had every reason to, and it had looked like she _wanted_ to. What had changed -- what had happened to her, to make her spare him?

He snipped the end off the last suture, troubled. She'd been so very different, strong in a way he'd ever seen in another human, with that strange serenity beneath her rage. Whenever he did make his move, she was going to present a formidable obstacle.

And oddly, he found he liked the idea. Anger him though she did, Von Ratched was weirdly proud of her. She'd tapped her potential -- God, had she ever -- and though she opposed him rather than standing beside him, he was morbidly curious about what she would do.

He wouldn't hunt her down, though she would likely fear the possibility. He wouldn't now kill her, even if he could, because she fascinated him in a whole new way. Never in his life had anyone come even close to rivaling him in power, but she certainly did. If she allied herself with those against him, as she doubtless would, she'd provide the first real challenge he had ever known.

Lorna would never love him, and Von Ratched was no longer delusional enough to believe she ever could have, but she was akin to him, whether she liked it or not. They'd meet again someday -- on his terms, not hers. Until then he would plan, and build his own silent empire. Realistically, it would take years, but that would give the world enough time to lull itself into complacency. 

_Yes, Lorna, you should have killed me. In time, I will destroy everything you hold dear._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we have reached the ending. Book two, _The Storm of M_ , will be up sooner or later (read: when I feel like coding all that html.) I hope you've enjoyed it, and I would love to know what you think of it.


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